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MORAL 


TALES, 


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MAKIA EDGEWORTH. 

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EMBELLISHED WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY DARLEY. 


CONTENTS. 

FORESTER. , 

THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 

THE GOOD AUNT. 

MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 

ANGELINA j OR, L^AMIE INCONNUK. 
THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 

THE KNa!pSACK. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

C. G. HENDEKSON & CO., 

N W. COENER FIFTH AND ARCH STREETS. 


NEW Y 0 R K; 

i>. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY. 
^18 5 G. 


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PREFACE. 


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It has been somewhere said by Johnson, that merely 
to invent a story is no small effort of the human under- 
standing. How much more difficult is it to construct 
stories suited to the early years of youth, and at the 
same time conformable to the complicate relations of 
modern society — fictions that shall display examples of 
virtue without initiating the young reader into the ways 
of vice — narratives written in a style level to his capa- 
city, without tedious detail or vulgar idiom! The 
author, sensible of these difficulties, solicits indulgence 
for such errors as have escaped her vigilanpe. 

In a former work the author has endeavoured to add 
something to the increasing stock of innocent amuse- 
ment and early instruction which the laudable exertions 
of some excellent modern writers provide for the rising 
generation ; and in the present an attempt is made to 
provide for young people of a more advanced’age a few 
tales that shall neither dissipate the attention nor inflame 
the imagination. 

In a work upon education which the public has been 
pleased to notice, we have endeavoured to show that 
under proper management amusement and instruction 
may accompany each oiner through many paths of Ik^- 

3 


V 


PREFACE. 


rature, while at the same time we have disclaimed and 
reprehended all attempts to teach in play. Steady un- 
tired attention is what alone produces excellence. Sir 
Isaac Newton, with as much truth as modesty, attri- 
buted to this faculty those discoveries in science which 
brought the heavens within the grasp of man, and 
weighed the earth in a balance. To inure the mind to 
athletic vigour is one of the chief objects of good educa- 
tion; and we have found, as far as our limited experi- 
ence has extended, that short and active exertions, in- 
terspersed with frequent agreeable relaxation, form the 
mind to strength and endurance better than long-con- 
tinued feeble study. 

Hippocrates, in describing the robust temperament, 
tells us that the athletce prepare themselves for the gym- 
nasium by strong exertion, which they continued till 
they felt fatigue; they then reposed till they felt return- 
ing strength and aptitude for labour: and thus, by alter- 
nate exercise and indulgence, their limbs acquired the 
firmest tone of health and vigour. We have found that 
those who have tasted with the keenest relish the beau- 
ties of Berquin, Day, or Barbauld, pursue a demonstra- 
tion of Euclid, or a logical deduction, with as much 
eagerness, and with more rational curiosity, than is 
usually shown by students who are nourished with the 
hardest fare and chained to unceasing labour. 

Forester” is the picture of an eccentric character — 
a young man who scorns the common forms and de- 
pendencies of civilized society; and who, full of 
visionary schemes of benevolence and happiness, 
might, by improper management or unlucky circum- 
stances, have become a fanatic and a criminal. 


PREFACE. 


T 


The scene of ^‘The Knapsack’’ is laid in Sweden, to 
produce variety, and to show that the rich and poor, 
the young and old, in all countries, are mutually ser- 
viceable to each other; and to portray some of those 
virtues which are peculiarly amiable in the character 
of a soldier. 

Angelina” is a female Forester. The nonsense of 
sentimentality is here aimed at with the shafts of ridi- 
cule, instead of being combated by serious argument. 
With the romantic eccentricities of Angelina are con- 
trasted faults of a more common and despicable sort. 
Miss Burrage is the picture of a young lady who 
meanly flatters persons of rank, and who, after she has 
smuggled herself into good company, is ashamed to ac- 
knowledge her former friends, to whom she was bound 
by the strongest ties of gratitude. 

Madame Panache” is a sketch of the necessary con- 
sequences of imprudently trusting the happiness of a 
daughter to the care of those who can teach nothing but 
accomplishments. 

The Prussian Vase” is a lesson against imprudence 
and on exercise of judgment, and a eulogium upon 
our inestimable trial by jury. This tale is designed 
principally for young gentlemen who are intended for 
the bar. 

The Good Governess” is a lesson to teach the art 
of giving lessons. 

In ‘‘The Good Aunt” the advantages which a judi- 
cious early education confers upon those who are in- 
tended for public seminaries are pointed out. It is a 
common error to suppose, that let a boy be what he 
may, when sent to Eton, Westminister, Harrow, or any 


vi 


PREFACE. 


great school, he will be moulded into proper form by 
the fortuitous pressure of numbers ; that emulation will 
necessarily excite, example lead, and opposition polish 
him. But these are vain hopes; the solid advantages 
which may be attained in these large nurseries of youth 
must be in a great measure secured by previous do- 
mestic instruction. 

These tales have been written to illustrate the opi- 
nions delivered in "Practical Education.’^ As their truth 
has appeared to me to be confirmed by increasing expe- 
rience, I sat down with pleasure to write this preface 
for my daughter. It is hoped that the following stories 
will afford agreeable relaxation from severer studies, 
and that they will be thought — what they profess to be 
—Moral Tales. 


R. L. EDGEWORTH. 


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FORESTER. 


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Forester was the son of an English gentleman, 
who had paid some attention to his education, but who 
had some singularities of opinion, which probably in- 
fluenced him in his conduct tOAvards his children. 

Young Forester was frank, brave, and generous j but 
he had bee^taught to dislike politeness so much, that 
the common forms of society appeared to him either 
odious or ridiculous; his sincerity was seldom re- 
strained by any attention to the feelings of others. His 
love of independence was carried to such an extreme, 
that he was inclined to prefer the life of ’Robinson 
Crusoe, in his desert island to that of any individual in 
cultivated society. His attention had been early fixed 
upon the follies and vices of the higher classes of 
people; and his contempt for selfish indolence was so 
strongly associated with the name of gentleman, that 
he was disposed to choose his friends and companions 
from amongf^.his inferiors ; the inequality between the 
rich and the poor shocked him : his temper Avas enthu- 
siastic as Avell as benevolent; and he ardently wished 
to be a man, and to be at liberty to act for himself, that 
he might reform society, or at least his own neighbour- 
hood. When he Avas about nineteen years old, his 
father died, and young Forester was sent to Edinburgh, 
to Dr. Campbell, the gentleman »whom his father had 
appointed his guardian. In the choice of his mode of 
travelling his disposition appeared. The stage-coach 


10 


MORAL TALES. 


and a carrier set out nearly at the same lime from Pen- 
rith. Forester, proud of bringing his principles imme- 
diately into action, put himself under the protection of 
the carrier, and congratulated himself upon his freedom 
from prejudice. He arrived at Edinburgh in all the 
glory of independence, and he desired the carrier to set 
him down at Dr. Campbell’s door. 

“ The doctor’s not at home,” said the footman who 
opened the door. 

Pie is at home,” exclaimed Forester, with indigna- 
tion ; I see him at the window.” 

“My master is just going to dinner, and can’t see 
any body now,” said the footman ; “ but if you will 
call again at six o’clock, maybe he may see you, my 
good lad.” 

“ My name is Forester — let me in,” said Forester, 
pushing forwards. 

“Forester! — Mr. Forester!” said the footman ; “the 
young gentleman that was expected in the coach to- 
day?” 

Without deigning to give the footman any explana- 
tion, Forester took his own portmanteau from the 
carrier; and Dr. Campbell came down stairs just when 
the footman was officiously struggling with the young 
gentleman for his burden. Dr. Campbell received his 
pupil’very kindly; but Forester would not be prevailed 
upon to rub his shoes sufficiently upon the mat at the 
bottom of the stairs, or to change his disordered dress 
before he made his appearance in the drawing-room. 
He entered with dirty shoes, a threadbare coat, and hair 
that looked as if it never had been combed; and he was 
much surprised by the effect which his singular appear- 
ance produced upon the risible muscles of some of the 
company. 

“ I have nothing to be ashamed of,” said he to him- 
self; but, notwithstanding all his efforts to be and to 
appear at ease, he was constrained and abashed. A 
young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, seemed to en* 
joy his confusion with malignant, half-suppressed mer- 
riment, in which Dr. Campbell’s son was too good- 


FORESTER. 


11 


natured and loo well-bred to participate. Henry Camp- 
Dell was three or four years older than Forester, and 
though he looked like a gentleman, F'orester could not 
help being pleased with the manner in which he drew 
him into conversation. The secret magic of politeness 
relieved him insensibly from the torment of false shame. 

‘‘ It is a pity this lad was bred up a gentleman,^' 
said Forester to himself, “for he seems to have some 
sense and goodness. 

Dinner was announced, and Forester was provoked 
at being interrupted in an argument concerning carls 
and coaches which he had begun with Henry Camp- 
bell. Not that Forester was averse to eating, for he 
was at this instant ravenously hungry ; but eating in 
company he always found equally repugnant to his 
habits and his principles. A table covered with a clean 
lable-cioth, dishes in nice order, plates, knives, and 
forks laid at regular distances, appeared to our young 
Diogenes absurd superfluities, and he was ready to ex- 
claim, “How many things I do not want!’^ Sitting 
down to dinner, eating, drinking and behaving like other 
people, appeared to him difficult and disagreeable cere- 
monies. He did not perceive that custom had rendered 
all these things perfectly easy to every one else in com- 
pany; and as soon as he had devoured his food his 
own way, he moralized in silence upon the good sense 
of Sancho Panza, who preferred eating an egg behind 
the door to feasting in public; and he recollected his 
favourite traveller Le Vaillant’s* enthusiastic account 
of his charming Hottentot dinners, and of the disgust 
that he afterward felt on the comparison of European 
etiquette and African simplicity. 

“Thank God, the ceremony of dinner is over,” said 
Forester to Henry Campbell, as soon as they rose I’rom 
table. 

All those things which seemed mere matter of course 
in society appeared to Forester strange ceremonies. In 
the evening there were cards for those who liked cards. 


* Le Vaillant’s Travels in Africa, vol. i. p. 114. 


MORAL TALES. 




and there was conversation for those who liked conver- 
sation. Forester liked neither; he preferred playing 
with a cat; and he sat all night apart from the com- 
pany in a corner of a sofa. He took it for granted that 
the conversation could not be worth his attention, be- 
cause he heard Lady Catherine Mackenzie's voice 
among others; he had conceived a dislike, or rather a 
contempt for this lady, because she showed much of 
the pride of birth and rank in her manners. Henry 
Campbell did not think it necessary to punish himself 
for her ladyship’s faults by withdrawing from enter- 
taining conversation : he knew that his father had the 
art of managing the frivolous subjects started in general 
company, so as to make them lead to amusement and 
instruction; and this Forester would probably have dis- 
covered this evening, had he not followed his own 
thoughts, instead of listening to the observations of 
others. Lady Catherine, it is true, began with a silly 
history of hereditary antipathy for pickled cucumbers ; 
and she was rather tiresome in tracing the genealogy 
of this antipathy through several generations of her an- 
cestry ; but Dr. Campbell said “ that he had heard, 
from an ingenious gentleman of her ladyship’s family, 
that her ladyship’s grandfather, and several of his 
friends, nearly lost their lives by pickled cucumbers,” 
and thence the doctor took occasion to relate several 
curious circumstances concerning the effects of different 
poisons. 

Dr. Campbell, who plainly saw both the defects and 
the excellent qualities of his young ward, hoped that, 
by playful raillery and by well-timed reasoning, he 
might mix a sufficient portion of good sense with 
Forester’s enthusiasm; might induce him gradually to 
sympathize in the pleasure of cultivated society, and 
might convince him that virtue is not confined to any 
particular class of men ; that education, in the enlarged 
sense of the word, creates the difference between indi 
viduals more than riches or poverty. He foresaw that 
Forester would form a friendship with his son, and that 
this attachment would cure him of his prejudices 


FORESTER. 


13 


against gentlemen, and would prevent him from in- 
dulging his taste for vulgar company. Henry Camp- 
bell had more useful energy, though less apparent 
enthusiasm, than his new companion : he was always 
employed ; he was really independent, because he had 
learned how to support himself either by the labours of 
his head or of his hands; but his independence did not 
render him unsociable; he was always ready to sym- 
pathize with the pleasures of his friends, and therefore 
he was beloved ; following his father’s example, he did 
all the good in his power to those who were in distress ; 
but he did not imagine that he could reform every 
abuse in society, dr that he could instantly new-model 
the universe. Forester became, in a few days, fond of 
conversing, or rather of holding long arguments with 
Henry; but his dislike to the young laird Archibald 
Mackenzie hourly increased. Archibald and his mo- 
ther, Lady Catherine Makenzie, were relations of Mrs. 
Campbell, and they were now upon a visit at her 
house. Lady Catherine, a shrewd woman, fond of 
precedence, and fully sensible of the importance that 
wealth can bestow, had sedulously inculcated into the 
mind of her son all the maxims of worldly wisdom 
which she had collected in her intercourse with society ; 
she had inspired him with family pride, but at the same 
time had taught him to pay obsequious court to his 
superiors in rank or fortune : the art of rising in the 
world, she knew, did not entirely depend upon virtue 
or ability ; she was consequently more solicitous about 
her son’s manners than his morals, and was more 
anxious that he should form high connexions than that 
he should apply to the severe studies of a profession. 
Archibald was, nearly what might be expected from his 
education, alternately supple to his superiors and in- 
solent to his inferiors : to insinuate himself into the 
favour of young men of rank and fortune, he affected to 
admire extravagance; but his secret maxims of parsi- 
mony operated even in the midst of dissipation. Mean- 
ness and pride usually go together; It is not to be 
supposed, that young Forester had such quick pene- 

li 




14 


MORAL TALES. 


tration that he could discover the whole of the artful 
Archibald’s character in the course of a few days’ ac- 
quaintance; but he disliked him for good reasons, 
because he was a laird, because he had laughed at his 
first entree, and because he was learning to dance. 


THE SKELETON. 

About a week after our hero’s arrival at Dr. Camp- 
bell’s, the doctor was exhibiting some chymical expe- 
riments, with which Henry hoped that his young friend 
would be entertained; but Forester had scarcely been 
five minutes in the laboratory, before Mackenzie, who 
' was lounging about the room, sneeringly took notice of 
a large hole in his shoe. It is easily mended,” said 
the independent youth ; and he immediately left the 
laboratory, and went to a cobbler’s, who lived in a 
narrow lane at the back of Dr. Campbell’s house. 
Forester had, from his bed-chamber window, seen this 
cobbler at work early every morning ; he admired his 
industry, and longed to be acquainted with him. The 
good-humoured familiarity of Forester’s manner pleased 
the cobbler, who v/as likewise diverted by the eagerness 
of the young gentleman to mend his own shoe. After 
spending some hours at Ctie cobbler’s stall, the shoe was 
‘actually mended, and Forester thought that his morn- 
ing’s work was worthy of admiration. In a court (or, 
as such places dre called in Edinburgh, a close) near the 
cobbler’s, he saiv some boys playing at ball : he joined 
them ; and while they were playing, a dancing-master, 
with his hair powdered, and who seemed afraid of spat- 
tering his clean stockings, passed through the court, 
and interrupted the ball-players for a few seconds. The 
boys, as soon as the man was out of hearing, declared 
that he passed through their court regularly twice a day, 
and that he always kicked their marbles out of the ring. 

/ 


FORESTER. 


15 


Without staying to weigh this evidence scrupulously. 
Forester received it with avidity and believed all that 
had been asserted was true, because the accused was a 
dancing-master: from his education he had conceived 
an antipathy to dancing- masters, especially to such as 
wore silk stockings, and had their heads well powered. 
Easily fired at the idea of any injustice, and eager to 
redress the grievances of the poor. Forester immediately 
concerted with these boys a scheme to deliver them 
from what he called the insolence of the dancing-master, 
and promised that he would compel him to go round by 
another street. 

In his zeal for the liberty of his new companions, 
our hero did not consider that he was infringing upon 
the liberties of a man who had never done him any 
injury, and over whom he had no right to exercise any 
control. 

Upon his return to Dr. Campbell’s, Forester heard 
the sound of a violin j and he found that his enemy, 
M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master, was attending Archi- 
bald Mackenzie: he learned that he was engaged to 
give another lesson the next evening, and the plans of 
the confederates in the ball-alley were jirranged accord- 
ingly. In Dr. Campbell’s room Forester remembered 
to have seen a skeleton in a glass case; he seized upon 
it, carried it down to his companions, and placed it in a 
niche in the wall, on the landing place of a flight of 
stone stairs down which the dancing-master was 
obliged to go. A butcher’s son, one of Forester’s new 
.companions, he instructed to stand at a certain hour 
behind the skeleton with two rushlights, which he was 
to hold up to the eyeholes in the scull. 

The dancing-master’s steps were heard approaching 
at the expected hour; and the boys stood in ambush to 
enjoy the diversion of the sight. It was a dark night; 
the fiery eyes of the skeleton glared suddenly upon the 
dancing-master, who was so terrified at the spectacle, 
and in such haste to escape, that his foot slipped, and 
he fell down the stone steps : his ankle was sprained 
by the fall, and he was brought to Dr. Campbell’s. 


16 


MORAL TALES. 


Forester was shocked at this tragical end of his intended 
comedy. The poor man was laid upon a bed, and he » 
writheh with pain. Forester, with vehement expres- 
sions of concern, explained to Dr. Campbell the cause 
of this accident, and he was much touched by the 
dancing-master’s good-nature, who, between every 
twinge of pain, assured him that he should soon be 
well, and endeavoured to avert Dr. Campbell’s dis- 
pleasure. Forester sat beside the bed, reproaching him- ^ 
self bitterly; and he was yet more sensible of his folly * 
when he heard that the boys whose part he had hastily 
taken had frequently amused themselves with play- 
ing mischievous tricks upon this inoffensive man, who 
declared that he had never purposely kicked their mar- 
bles out of the ring, but had always implored them to 
make way for him with all the civility in his power. 

Forester resolved that before he ever again attempted 
to do justice he would at least hear both sides of the 
question. 


THE ALARM. 

Forester would willingly have sat up all night with 
M. Pasgrave, to foment his ankle from lime to time, 
and, if possible, to assuage the pain: but the man Avould 
not suffer him to sit up, and about twelve o’clock he 
retired to rest. He had scarcely fallen asleep when his 
door opened, and Archibald Mackenzie roused him by 
demanding in a peremptory lone how he could sleep 
when the whole family were frightened out of their wits 
by his pranks. 

‘‘Is the dancing-master worse? What’s the matter?” 
exclaimed Forester, in great terror. 

Archibald replied that he was not talking nor thinking 
about the dancing-master, and desired Forester to make 


FORESTER. 17 

Kaste and dress himself, and that he would then soon 
hear what was the matter. 

Forester dressed himself as fast as he could, and fol- 
lowed Archibald through a long passage which led to a 
back staircase. “^Do you hear the noise?” said 
Archibald. 

“ Not I,” said Forester. 

Well, you’ll hear it plain enough presently,” said 
Archibald : follow me down stairs.” 

He followed, and was surprised when he got into the 
hall to find all the family assembled. Lady Catherine 
had been awakened by a noise, which she at first 
imagined to be the screaming of an infant. Her bed- 
chamber was on the ground-floor, and adjoining to Dr. 
Campbell’s laboratory, from which the noise seemed to 
proceed. She wakened her son Archibald and Mrs. 
Campbell; and, when she recovered her senses a little, 
she listened to Dr. Campbell, who assured her that what 
her ladyship thought was the screaming of an infant 
was the noise of a cat : the screams of this cat were ter- 
rible, and when the light approached the door of the 
laboratory, the animal flew at the door with so much 
fury that nobody could venture to open it. Everybody 
looked at Forester, as if they suspected that he had con- 
fined the cat, or that he was in some way or other the 
cause of the disturbance. The cat, who, from his 
having constantly fed and played with it, had grown 
extremely fond of him, used to follow him often from 
room to room ; and he now recollected that it followed 
him the preceding evening into the laboratory when he 
went to replace the skeleton. He had not observed 
whether it came out of the room again, nor could he 
now conceive the cause of its yelling in this horrible 
manner. The animal seemed to be mad with pain. 
Dr. Campbell asked his son whether all the presses 
were locked. Henry said he was sure that they were 
all locked. It was his business to lock them every 
evening, and he was so exact that nobody doubted his 
accuracy. 

Archibald Mackenzie, who all this time knew, or at 
b2 


18 


MORAL TALES. 


least suspected, the truth, held himself in cunning 
silence. The preceding evening he, for want of some- 
thing to do, had strolled into the laboratory, and, with 
the pure curiosity of idleness, peeped into the presses 
and took the stoppers out of several of the bottles. Dr. 
Campbell happened to come in, and carelessly asked 
him if he had been looking in the presses; to which 
question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive 
for telling a falsehood, immediately replied in the nega- 
tive, As the doctor turned his head, Archibald put 
aside a bottle, which he had just before taken out of the 
press ; and, fearing that the noise of replacing the glass 
stopper would betray him, he slipped it into his waist- 
coat pocket. — How much useless cunning! All this 
transaction was now fully present to Archibald’s me- 
mory ; and he was well convinced that Henry had not 
seen the bottle when he afterward went to lock the 
presses; that the cat ‘had thrown it down; and that 
this was the cause of all the yelling that disturbed the 
house. Archibald, however, kept his lips fast closed; 
he had told one falsehood ; he dreaded to have it dis- 
covered ; and he hoped the blame of the whole affair 
would rest upon Forester. At length the animal flew 
with diminished fury at the door; its screams became 
feebler and feebler, till at last they totally ceased. 
There was silence: Dr. Campbell opened the door: the 
cat was seen stretched upon the ground, apparently 
lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor animal 
he saw a twitching motion in one of its hind legs ; Dr. 
Campbell said that it was the convulsion of death. 
Forester was just going to lift up his cat when his 
friend Henry stopped his hand, telling him that he 
would burn himself if he touched it. The hair and 
flesh of the cat on one side were burned away quite to 
the bone. Henry pointed to the broken bottle, which, 
he said, had contained vitriolic acid. 

Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the 
bottle of vitriolic acid had been taken out of its place. 
Suspicion naturally fell upon Forester, who, by his 
own account, was the last person in the room before 


FORESTER. 


J9 


the presses had been locked for the night. Forester, in 
warm terms, asserted that he knew nothing of the mat- 
ter. Dr. Campbell coolly observed that Forester ought 
not to be surprised at being suspected upon this occa- 
sion ; because everybody had the greatest reason to sus- 
pect the person whom they had detected in one prac- 
tical joke of planning another. 

Joke!’’ said Forester, looking down upon his life- 
less favourite-: “ do you ' think me capable of such 
cruelty? Do you doubt my truth ?” Exclaimed For- 
ester, haughtily. “You are unjust. Turn me out of 
your house this instant. I do not desire your protection 
if I have forfeited your esteem.” 

“Go to bed for to-night in my house,” said Dr. 
Campbell, “moderate your enthusiasm, and reflect 
coolly upon what has passed.” 

Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, 
with a benevolent smile, as he looked after him, “He 
wants nothing but a little common sense. Henry, you 
must give him a little of yours.” 

In the morning Forester first went to inquire how the 
dancing-master had slept; and then knocked impatiently 
at Dr. Campbell’s door. 

“ My father is not awake,” said Henry; but Forester 
marched directly up to the side of the bed, and drawing 
back the curtain with no gentle hand, cried, with a loud 
voice, “Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your pardon. 

I was angry when I said you were unjust.” 

“And I was asleep when you begged my pardon,” 
said Dr. Campbell, rubbing his eyes. 

“ The dancing-master’s ankle is a great deal better, • 
and I have buried the poor cat,” pursued Forester: 
“ and I hope now, doctor, you’ll at least tell me that 
you do not really suspect me of any hand in her death.” 

Pray let me go to sleep,” said Dr. Campbell, “ and 
time your explanations a little better.” 


20 


MORAL TALES. 


THE GERANIUM. 

The dancing- master gradually recovered from his 
sprain; and Forester spent all his pocket-money in 
buying a new violin for him, as his had been broken in 
his fall: his watch had likewise been broken against 
the stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch 
as a useless bauble, yet he determined to get this 
mended; and his friend Henry went with him for this 
purpose to a watchmaker’s. 

While Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting 
with the watchmaker upon the internal state of the 
bruised watch, Archibald Mackenzie, who followed 
them for a lounge, was looking over some new watches, 
and ardently wishing for the hnest that he saw. As he 
was playing with this fine watch, the watchmaker 
begged that he would take care not to break it. 

Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used 
to speak to a tradesman, replied, that if he did break it, 
he hoped he was able to pay for it. The watchmaker 
civilly answered, “ he had no doubt of that, but that 
the watch was- not his property; it was Sir Philip Gos- 
ling’s, who would call for it, he expected, in a quarter 
of an hour.” 

At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly 
changed his tone: he had a great ambition to be of Sir 
Philip’s acquaintance; for Sir Philip was a young man, 
who was to have a large fortune when he should come 
of age, and who, in the mean time, spent as much of it 
as possible with great spiiit and little judgment. He 
had been sent to Edinburgh for his education; and he 
spent his time in training horses, laying bets, parading 
in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own 
phrase, quizzing every sensible young man who applied 
to literature or science. Sir Philip, whenever he fre- 
quented any of the professor’s classes, look care to 
make it evident to everybody present that he did not 
’ come there to learn, and that he looked''down with con 


FORESTER. 


21 


tempt upon all who were obliged to study : he was the 
first always to make any disturbance in the classes, or, 
in his elegant language, to make a row. 

This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archi- 
bald Mackenzie was ambitious. He staid in the shop, 
in hopes that Sir Philip would arrive : he was not dis- 
appointed ; Sir Philip came, and, with address which 
Lady Catharine would perhaps have admired, Archi- 
bald entered into conversation with the young baronet, 
if conversation that might be called which consisted of a 
species of fashionable dialect, devoid of sense, and des- 
titute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect 
was absolutely unintelligible; after he had listened to 
it with sober contempt for a few minutes, he pulled 
Henry away, saying, Come, don’t let us waste our 
time here ; let us go to the brewery that you promised 
to show me.’^ 

Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of 
his indignant friend, for, at this instant, the door of a 
little back parlour behind the watchmaker’s shop open- 
ed slowly, and a girl of about seven years old appeared, 
carrying, with difficulty, a flower- pot, in w'hich there 
was a fine large geranium in full flower. Henry, who 
saw that the child was scarcely able to carry it, took,it 
out of her hands, and asked her, Where she would 
like to have it put?’’ 

Here, for to-day !” said the little girl, sorrowfully; 

but to-morrow, it goes away for ever!” 

The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, 
because ‘‘she had watched it all the winter,” and said, 
“ that she was very fond of it ; but that she was willing 
to part with it, though it was just come into flower, be- 
cause the apothecary had told her that it was the cause 
of her grandmother’s having been taken ill. Her grand- 
mother lodged,” she said, “ in that little room, and the 
room was very close, and she was taken ill in the night 
— so ill that she could hardly speak or stir.; and when 
the apothecary came, he said,” continued the little girl, 
“it w^as no wonder anybody was ill, who slept in such 
a little close room, with such a great geranium in it to 


22 


MORAL TALES. 


poison the air. So my geranium must go!’’ concluded 
she with a sigh ; “but as it is for grandmother, I shall 
never think of it again.” 

Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with 
the modest simplicity of this child’s countenance and 
manner, and they were pleased with the unaffected ge- 
nerosity with which she gave up her favourite geranium. 

Forester noted this down in his mind, as a fresh in- 
stance in favour of his exclusive good opinion of the 
poor. This little girl looked poor, though she was 
decently dressed ; she was so thin that her little cheek 
bones could plainly be seen; her face had not the round, 
rosy beauty of cheerful health: she was pale and sal- 
low, and she looked in patient misery. Moved with com- 
passion, Forester regretted that he had no money to 
give where it might have been so well bestowed. He 
was always extravagant in his generosity; he would 
often give five guineas where five shillings would have 
been enough, and by these means he reduced himself 
to the necessity sometimes of refusing assistance to de- 
serving objects. On his journey from his father’s house 
to Edinburgh, he lavished, in undistinguishing charity, 
a considerable sum of money ; and all that he had re- 
maining of this money he spent in purchasing the new 
violin for M. Pasgrave. Dr. Campbell absolutely re- 
fused to advance his ward any money till his next quar- 
terly allowance should become due. Henry, who al- 
ways perceived quickly what passed in the minds of 
others, guessed at Forester’s thoughts by his counte- 
nance, and forebore to produce his own money, though 
he had it just ready in his hand : he knew that he could 
call again at the watchmaker’s, and give what he pleas- 
ed, without ostentation. 

Upon questioning the little girl further concerning 
her grandmother’s illness, Henry discovered that the 
old woman had sat up late at night knitting, and that, 
feeling herself extremely cold, she got a pan of char- 
coal into her room; that, soon afterward, she, felt un- 
commonly drowsy, and when her little granddaughter 
spoke tocher, and asked her why she did not come to 


FORESTER. 


23 


bed? she made no answer: a few minutes after this 
she dropped from her chair. The child was extremely 
frightened, and though she felt it very difficult to rouse 
herself, she said she got up as fast as she could, opened 
the door, and called to the watchmaker’s wife, who 
luckily had been at work late, and was now raking the 
kitchen fire. With her assistance the old woman was 
brought into the air, and presently returned to her senses : 
the pan of charcoal had been taken away before the 
apothecary came in the morning; as he was in a great 
hurry when he called, he made but fe\y inquiries, and 
consequently condemned the geranium without suf- 
ficient evidence. As he left the house, he carelessly 
said, ‘‘My wife would like that geranium, I think.” 
And the poor old woman, who had but a very small fee 
to offer, was eager to give any thing that seemed to 
please the doctor. 

Forester, when he heard .this story, burst into a con- 
temptuous exclamation against the meanness of this 
and of all other apothecaries. Henry informed the little 
girl that the charcoal had been the cause of her grand- 
mother’s illness, and advised them never, upon any 
account, to keep a pan of charcoal again in her bed- 
chamber; he told her that many people had been killed 
by this practice. “ Then,” cried the little girl joyfully, 
“ if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that 
made grandmother ill, I may keep my beautiful gera- 
nium and she ran immediately to gather some of the 
flowers, which she offered to Henry and to Forester. 
Forester, who was still absorbed in the contemplation 
of the apothecary’s meanness, took the flowers, with- 
out perceiving that he took them, and pulled them to 
pieces as he went on thinking. Henry, when the little 
girl held the geraniums up to him, observed that the 
back of her hand was bruised and black; he asked her 
how she had hurt herself, and she replied innocently, 
“ that she had not hurt herself, but that her schoolmis- 
tress was a very strict woman.” Forester, roused from 
his revery, desired to hear what the little girl meant by 
a strict woman, and she explained herself more fully ; 


24 


MORAL TALES 


she said, that as a favour, her grandmother had obtained 
leave from some great lady to send her to a charity- 
school : that sbe went there every day to learn to read 
and work, but that the mistress of the charity-school 
used her scholars very severely, and often kept them for 
hours, after they had done their own tasks, to spin for 
her ; and that she beat them if they did not spin as much 
as she expected. The little girl’s grandmother then said 
that she knew all this, but that she did not dare to com- 
plain, because the school-mistress was under the patron- 
age of some of “ the grandest ladies in Edinburgh,” 
and that as she could not afford to pay for her little 
lass’s schooling, she was forced to have her taught as 
well as she couldjTo?’ nothing. 

Forester, fired with indignation at this history of in- 
justice, resolved, at all events, to stand forth immedi- 
ately in the child’s defence; but, without staying to 
consider how the wrong could be redressed, he thought 
only of the quickest, or, as he said, the most manly 
means of doing the business : he declared, that if the 
little girl would show him the way to the school, he 
would go that instant and speak to the woman in the 
midst of all her scholars. Henry in vain represented 
that this would not be a prudent mode of proceeding. 

Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely co 
the power of his own eloquence, he set out with the 
child, who seemed rather afraid to come to open war 
with her tyrant. Henry Avas obliged to return home to 
his father, who had usually business for him to do about 
this time. The little girl had staid at home on account 
of her grandmother’s illness, but all the other scholars 
were hard at work, spinning in a close room, when 
Forester arrived. 

He marched directly into the school-room. The 
wheels stopped at once on his appearance, and the 
sjchool-mistress, a raw-boned, intrepid-looking woman, 
eyed him with amazement; he broke silence in the fol- 
lowing words : — 

‘‘ Vile woman, your injustice is come to light! How 
can you dare to tyrannize over these poor children? Is 


FORESTER. 


25 


It because they are poor? Take my advice, children, 
resist this tyrant, put by your wheels, and spin for her 
no more.’’ 

The children did not move, and the school-mistress 
poured out a torrent of abuse in broad Scotch, which to 
the English ear of Forester was unintelhgible. At 
length she made him comprehend her principal ques- 
tions — Who he was? and by whose authority he in- 
terfered between her and her scholars ? “ By nobody’s 

authority,” was Forester’s answer : I want no au- 
thority to speak in the cause of injured innocence.” No 
sooner had the woman heard these words than she call- 
ed to her husband, who was writing in an adjoining 
room : without further ceremony, they both seized upon 
our hero, and turned him out of the house. 

The woman revenged herself without mercy upon tlj,e 
little girl whom Forester had attempted to defend, and 
dismissed her, with advice never more to complain of 
being obliged to spin for her mistress. 

Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise. Forester 
returned home, attributing the failure of his eloquence 
chiefly to his ignorance of the Scotch dialect. 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 

At his return. Forester heard that all Dr. Campbell’s 
family were going that evening to visit a gentleman 
who had an excellent cabinet of minerals. He had 
some desire to see the fossils ; but when he came to 
the gentleman’s house, he soon found himself disturb- 
ed at the praises bestowed by some ladies in company 
upon a little canary-bird which belonged to the mistress 
of the house. He began to kick his feet together, to 
hang first one arm and then the other, over the back of 
his chair, with the obvious expression of impatience 
and contempt in his countenance. Henry Campbell, 
in the mean time, said, without any embarrassment, 

c 


26 


c 


MORAL TALES. 


just what he thought about the bird. Archibald Mac- 
kenzie, with artificial admiration, said a vast deal more 
than he thought, in hopes of effectually recommending 
himself to the lady of the house. The lady told him 
the history of three birds which had successively inha- 
bited the cage before the present occupier. “They all 
died,” continued she, “ in a most exlraordinary man- 
ner, one after another, in a short space of time, m con- 
vulsions.” 

“ Don’t listen,” whispered Forester, pulling Henry 
away from the crowd who surrounded the bird-cage; 
“ how can you listen, like that polite hypocrite, to this 
foolish woman’s history of her extraordinary favourites? 
Come down stairs with me. I want to tell you my ad- 
venture with the school-mistress ; we can take a turn in 
the hall and come back before the cabinet of minerals is 
opened, and before these women have finished the cere- 
mony of tea — come.” 

“ I’ll come presently,” said Henry ; “I really want to 
hear this.” 

Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of 
the lady’s favourite birds like a polite hypocrite, but 
like a good natured, sensible person; the circumstances 
recalled to his memory the conversation that we for- 
merly mentioned, which began about pickled cucum- 
bers, and ended with Dr. Campbell’s giving an account 
of the effects of some poisons. In consequence of this 
conversation, Henry’s attention had been turned to the 
subject, and he had read several essays, which had in- 
formed him of many curious facts. He recollected, in 
particular, to have met with the account* of a bird, who 
had been poisoned, and whose case bore a strong re- 
semblance to the present. He begged leave to e:)«imine 
the cage, in order to discover whether there were any 
lead about it, with which the birds could have poisoned 
themselves. No lead was to be found: he next exa- 
mined whether there were any white or green paint 
about it ; he inquired whence the water came which the 


♦ Falconer on the Poison of Lead and Copper. 


FORESTER. 


27 


Lirds had drunk; and he examined the trough which 
held their seeds. The ladv, while he was pursuing 
these inquiries, said she was sure that the birds could not 
have died either lor want of air or exercise, for that she 
often left the cage open on purpose, that they might 
fly about the room. Henry immediately looked round 
the room, and at length he observed in an inkstand 
ivhich stood upon a writing table a number of wafers, 
which were many of them chipped round the edges ; 
upon sweeping out the bird-cage, he found a few very 
small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds and dust; he 
was now persuaded that the birds had eaten the wafers, 
and that they had been poisoned by the red lead which 
they contained ; he was confirmed in this opinion by 
being told that the wafers had lately been missed very 
frequently, and it had been imagined that they had been 
used by the servants. Henry begged the lady would try 
an experiment, which might probably save the life of 
her new favourite; the lady, though she had never be- 
fore tried an experiment, was easily prevailed upon. 
She promised Henry that she would lock up the wafers ; 
and he prophesied that her bird would not, like his pre- 
decessors, come to an untimely end. Archibald Mac- 
kenzie was vexed to observe that knowledge had in this 
instance succeeded better, even with a lady, than flattery. 
As for Forester, he would certainly have admired his 
friend Henry’s ingenuity, if he had been attending to 
what had passed ; but he had taken a book, and had 
seated himself in an arm-chair, which had been placed 
on purpose for an old gentleman in company, and was 
deep in the "history of a man who had been cast away, 
some hundred years ago, upon a desert island. 

He condescended, however, to put down his book 
when the fossils were produced : and, as if he had just 
awakened from a dream, rubbed his eyes, stretched him- 
self, and joined the rest of the company. The malicious 
Archibald, who observed tha^ Forester had seated him- 
self, through absence of mind, in a place which prevent- 
ed some of the ladies from seeing the fossils, instantly 
made a parade of his own ooliteness, to contrast him- 


28 


MORAL TALES. 


self advantageously with the rude negligence of his 
companion ; but Archibald’s politeness was always 
particularly directed to the persons in company whom 
he thought of the most importance. You can’t see 
there,” said Forester, rousing himself, and observing 
that Dr. Campbell’s daughter, Miss Flora Campbell, 
was standing behind him ; had you not better sit 
down in this chair? T don’t want it, because Fean see 
over your head ; sit down.” Archibald smiled at For- 
ester’s simplicity in paying his awkward compliment to 
the young lady, who had, according to his mode of esti- 
mating, the least pretensions to notice of any one present 
Flora Campbell was neither rich nor beautiful, but she 
had a happy mixture in her manners of Scottish spright- 
liness and English reserve. She had an eager desire to 
improve herself, while a nice sense of propriety taught 
her never to intrude upon general notice, or to recede 
from conversation with airs of counterfeit humility. 
Forester admired her abilities, because he imagined that 
he was the only person who had ever discovered themj 
as to her manners, he never observed these, but, even 
while he ridiculed politeness, he was anxious to find 
out what she thought polite. After he had told her 
that he knew concerning the fossils, as they Avere pro-" 
duced from the cabinet, and he was far from ignorant, he 
at length perceived that she knew full as much of natural 
history as he did, and he was surprised that a young 
lady should know so much, and should nul be conceited. 
Flora, however, soon sank many degrees iii his opinion ; 
for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was shut, sgme of 
the company talked of a ball Avhich was to be gj.’ en in 
a few days, and Flora, with innocent gayety, ’ to 
Forester, “ Have you learned to dance a Scotch reel 
since you came to Scotland?” — “//” cried Forester, 
with contempt ; “ do you think it the height of human 
perfection to dance a Scotch reel? — then that fine young 
laird Mr. Archibald Mackenzie Avill suit you much beF 
ter than I shall.” 

And Forester returned to his arm-chair and his desert 
island. 


FORESTER. 


29 


THE KEY. 

It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company 
in su3h abrupt displeasure at Flora Campbell’s question ; 
for had he borne the idea of a Scotch reel more like a 
philosopher, he would have heard of something interest- 
ing relative to the intended ball, if any thing relative to 
a ball could be interesting to him. It was a charity- 
ball, for the benefit of the mistress of the very charity- 
school* to which the little girl with the bruised hand 
belonged. Do you know,” said Henry to Forester, 
when they returned home, that I have great hopes we 
shall be able to get justice done to the poor children. I 
hope the tyrannical school-mistress may yet be punished. 
The lady with whom we drank tea yesterday is one of 
the patronesses of the charity-school.” 

^‘Lady patronesses!” cried Forester; “^we need not 
expect justice from a lady patroness, depend upon it, 
especially at a ball ; her head will be full of feathers, or 
some such things. I prophesy you will not succeed 
better than I have.” 

The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter 
Henry from pursuing a scheme which he had formed. 
The lady who was the mistress of the canary-bird came 
in a few days to visit his mother, and she told him that 
his experiment had succeeded, that she had regularly 
locked up the wafers, and that her favourite bird was in 
perfect health. “ And what fee, doctor,” said she, 
smilinr, ‘‘shall I give you for saving his life?” 

‘‘J'will tell you in a few minutes,” replied Henry; 
anr Til a few minutes the little girl and 'her geranium 
were sent for, and appeared. Henry told the lady all 
the circumstances of her story with so much feeling, 
and at the same lime with so much propriety, that she 
became interested in the cause : she declared that she 
would do every thing in her power to prevail upon the 

♦ There is no charity-school of this description in Edinburgh ; this 
cannot, therefore, be mistaken for private satire. 

c 2 


30 


MORAL TALES. 


Other ladies to examine into the conduct of the school- 
mistress, and to have her dismissed immediately, if it 
should appear that she had behaved improperly. 

Forester, who was present at this declaration, was 
much astonished that a lady whom he had seen caress- 
ing a canary-bird could speak with so much decision 
and good sense. Henry obtained his fee : he asked 
and received permission to place the geranium in the 
middle of the supper-table at the ball; and he begged 
that the lady would take an opportunity at supper to 
mention the circumstances which he had related to her; 
but this she declined, and politely said that she was 
sure Henry would tell the story much better than she 
could. 

^^Come out and walk with me,” said Forester to 
Henry, as soon as the lady was gone. Henry frequently 
left his occupations with great good-nature to accom- 
pany our hero in his rambles, and he usually followed 
the subjects of conversation which Forester started. He 
saw, by the gravity of his countenance, that he had 
something of importance revolving in his mind. After 
he had proceeded in silence for some time along the 
walk, under the high rock called Arthur’s Seat, he sud- 
denly stopped, and turning to Henry, exclaimed, I 
esteem you ; do not make me despise you !” 

‘‘ I hope I never shall,” said Henry, a little surprised 
by his friend’s manner : “ what is the matter?” 

Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty arti- 
fices, and supple addresses to such people as Archi- 
bald Mackenzie,” pursued Forester, with enthusiasm ; — 


“Who noble ends by noble means pursues — ” 
“ Will scorn canary-birds, and cobble shoes,’* 


replied Henry, laughing : ‘‘ I see no meanness in my 
conduct: I do not know what it is you disapprove?” 

“ I do not approve,” said Forester, of your having 
recourse to mean address to obtain justice.” 

Henry requested to know what his severe friend 
meant % address; but this was not easily explained. 


FORESTER. 


31 


Forester, in his definiton of mean address, included all 
that attention to the feelings of others, all those honest 
arts of pleasing, which make society agreeable, Henry 
endeavoured to convince him that it was possible for \ 
person to wish to please, nay, even to succeed in that 
wish, without being insincere. Their argument and 
their walk continued, till Henry, who, though very ac- 
tive, was not quite so robust as his friend, was com- 
pletely tired, especially as he perceived that Forester’s 
opinions remained unshaken. 

“ How effeminate you gentlemen are!” cried Fores- 
ter: ‘^see what it is to be brought up in the lap of 
luxury. Why I am not at all tired ; I could walk a 
dozen miles farther, without being in the least fatigued I” 

Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to 
walk a number of miles without being fatigued, but he 
did not consider it as the highest perfection of human 
nature. In his friend’s present mood, nothing less could 
content him, and Forester went on to demonstrate to 
the weary Henry, that all fortitude, all courage, , and all 
the manly virtues were inseparably connected with pe~ 
deshdan indefatigability. Henry, with good-natured pre- 
sence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have 
called mean address, diverted our hero’s rising indigna- 
tion by proposing that they should both go and look at 
the large brewery, which was in their way home, and 
with which Forester would, he thought, be entertained. 

The brewery fortunately turned the course of Fores- 
ter’s thoughts, and, instead of quarrelling with his friend 
for being tired, he condescended to postpone all further 
debate. Forester had, from his childhood, a habit of 
twirling a key whenever he was thinking intently : the 
key had been produced, and had been twirling upon its 
accustomed thumb during the argument upon address; 
and it was still in Forester’s hand when they went into 
the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was 
essential to his power of attending; at length, as he 
stopped to view a large brewing vat, the key unluckily 
slipped' from his thumb, and fell to the bottom of the 
vat; it was so deep, that the tinkling sound of the key. 


32 


MORAL TALES. 


as it touched the bottom, Avas scarcely heard. A young 
man who belonged to the brewery immediately de- 
scended by a ladder into the vat to get the key, but 
scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down 
senseless. Henry Campbell was speaking to one of the 
clerks of the brewery when this accident happened : a 
man came running to them with the news, ‘‘The vat 
has not been cleaned — it’s full of bad air,” — “ Draw 
him up, letdown a hook and cords for him instantly, or 
he’s a dead man,” cried Henry, and he instantly ran to 
the place. What was his terror when he beheld Fores- 
ter descending the ladder! He called to him to stop; 
he assured him that the man could be saved without his 
hazarding his life; but, Forester persisted : he had one 
end of a cord in his hand, which he said he could fasten 
in an instant round the man’s body. There was a sky- 
light nearly over the vat, so that the light fell directly 
upon the bottom. 

Henry saw his friend reach the last rung of the lad- 
der. As Forester stooped to put the rope round the 
shoulders of the man, who lay insensible at the bottom 
of the vat, a sudden air of idiocy came over his ani- 
mated countenance; his limbs seemed no longer to obey 
his will; his arms dropped, and he fell insensible. 

The spectators, who were looking down from above, 
were so much terrified that they could not decide to do 
any thing: some cried, “It’s all over with him! Why 
would he go down?” Others ran to procure a hook — 
others called to him to take up the rope again, if he pos- 
sibly could : but Forester could not hear or understand 
them., Henry Campbell was the only person who, in 
this scene of danger and confusion, had sufficient pre- 
sence of mind to be of service. 

Near the large vat into which Forester had descended 
there was a cistern of cold Vater. Henry seized a 
bucket which was floating in the cistern, filled it with 
water, and emptied the Avater into the vat, dashing it 
against the sides to disperse the Avater, and to dispface 
the mephitic air.* He called to the people Avho sur- 

♦ Carbonic acid gas. 


FORESTER. 


33 


rounded him for assistance; the water expelled the air; 
and, when it was safe to descend, Henry instantly went 
down the ladder himself, and fastened the cord round 
Forester, who was quite helpless. 

Draw him up !” said Henry. They drew him up. 
Henry fastened another cord round the body of the other 
man who lay at the bottom of the vessel, and he was 
taken up in the same manner. Forester soon returned 
to his senses when he was carried into the air; it was 
with more difficulty that the other man, whose anima- 
tion had been longer suspended, was recovered; at 
length, however, by proper applications, his lungs 
played freely. He stretched himself, looked round upon 
the people who were about him with an air of astonish- 
ment, and was some lime before he could recollect what 
had happened to him. Forester, as soon as he had re- 
covered the use of his understanding, was in extreme 
anxiety to know whether the poor man who went down 
for his key had been saved. His gratitude to Henry, 
when he heard all that had passed, was expressed in the 
most enthusiastic manner. 

“ I acted like a madman, and you like a man of 
sense,” said Forester. “You always know how to do 
good: I do mischief whenever I attempt to do good. 
But now don’t expect, Henry, that I should give up any 
of my opinions to you because you have saved my life, 
I shall always argue with you just as I did before. 
Remember, I despise address. I don’t yield a single 
point to you. Gratitude shall never make me a syco- 
phant.” 


THE FLOWER-POT. 

Eager to prove that he was not a sycophant. Fores- 
ter, when he returned home with his friend Henry, 
took every possible occasion to contradict him, with even 


34 


MORAL TALES. 


more than his customary rigidity ; nay, he went further 
still to vindicate his sincerity. 

Flora Campbell had never entirely recovered our 
hero’s esteem since she had unwittingly expressed her 
love for Scotch reels; but she was happily unconscious 
of the crime she had committed, and was wholly intent 
upon pleasing her father and mother, her brother Henry, 
and herself. She had a constant flow of good spirits, 
and the charming domestic talent of making every trifle 
a source of amusement to herself and others: she was 
sprightly, without being frivolous ; and the uniform 
sweetness of her temper showed that she was not in the 
least in want of flattery or dissipation to support her 
gayety. But Forester, as the friend of her brother, 
thought it incumbent upon him to discover faults in her 
which no one else could discover, and to assist in her 
education, though she was only one year younger than 
himself. She had amused herself the morning that Fores- 
ter and her brother were at the brewery with painting a 
pasteboard covering for the flower-pot which held the 
poor little girl’s geranium. Flora had heard from her 
brother of his intention to place it in the middle of the 
supper-table at the ball; and she flattered herself that 
he would like to see it ornamented by her hands at his 
return. She produced it after dinner. Henry thanked 
her, and her father and mother were pleased to see her 
eagerness to oblige her brother. The cynical Forester 
alone refused his sympathy. He looked at the flower- 
pot with marked disdain. Archibald, who delighted to 
contrast himself with the unpolished Forester, and who 
remarked that Flora and her brother were both some- 
what surprised at his unsociable silence, slyly said. 

There’s something in this flower-pot. Miss Campbell, 
which does not suit Mr. Forester’s correct taste; 1 wish 
he would allow us to profit by his criticisms.” 

Forester vouchsafed not a reply. 

“ Don’t you like it. Forester?” said Henry. 

No, he does not like it,” said Flora, smiling; “ don’t 
force him to say that he does.” 


' FORESTER. .35 

** Force me lo say I like what I don’t like .” repeated 
Forester j ‘‘no, I defy anybody to do that,” 

“But why,” said Dr. Campbell, laughings, “why 
such a waste of energy and magnanimity about a trifle? 
If you were upon your trial for life or death, Mr. For- 
ester, you could not look more resolutely guarded, — 
more as if you had ‘ worked up each corporal agent’ to 
the terrible feat !” 

“ Sir,” said Forester, who bore the laugh that was 
raised against him with the air of a martyr, “ I can bear 
even your ridicule in the cause of truth.” The laugh 
continued at the solemnity with which Ae pronounced 
these words, “ I think,” pursued Forester, “ that those 
who do not respect truth in trifles will never respect it 
in matters of consequence.” 

Archibald Mackenzie laughed more loudly, and with 
affectation, at this speech : Henry and Dr. Campbell’s 
laughter instantly ceased. 

“ Do not mistake us,” said Dr. Campbell ; “ we did 
not laugh at your principles, we only laughed at your 
manner.” 

“ And are not principles of rather more consequence 
than manners ?” 

“ Of intinitely more consequence,” said Dr. Camp- 
bell ; “ but why to excellent principles may we not add 
agreeable manners? Why should not truth be amiab.’e 
as well as respectable? You, who have such enlarged 
views for the good of the whole human race, are, I make 
no doubt, desirous that your fellow-creatures should 
love truth as well as you love it yourself.” 

“Certainly, I wish they did,” said Forester. ' 

“ Ahd have your observations upon the feelings of 
others, and upon your own, led you to' conclude that 
we are most apt to like those things which always give 
us pain? And do you, upon this principle, wish to 
make truth as painf^ul as possible, in order to increase 
our love for it?” 

“ I don’t wish to make truth painful,” said Forester, 
“ but, at the same time, it is not my fault if people can’t 
bear pain. I think people who can’t bear pain, both ol 


MORAL TALES. 


body and mind, cannot be good for any thing ; for, in 
the first place, they will always’^ said Forester, glancing 
his eye at Flora and her flower-pot, ‘Mhey will always 
prefer flattery to truth, as all weak people do.” 

At this sarcastic reflection, which seemed to be aimed 
at the sex. Lady Catherine, Mrs. Campbell, and all the 
ladies present, except Flora, began to speak at once in 
their own vindication. 

As soon as there was any prospect of peace Dr. 
Campbell resumed his argument, in the calmest voice 
imaginable. ' 

“ But, Mr. Forester, without troubling ourselves for the 
present with the affairs of the ladies, or of weak people, 
may 1 ask what degree of unnecessary pain you think it 
the duty of a strong person, a moral Samson, to bear?” 

‘^‘Unnecessary pain! Ido not think it is anybody’s 
duly to bear unnecessary pain.” 

“ Nor to make others bear it ?” 

“ Nor to make others bear it.” 

“ Then we need argue no further. I congratulate you, 
Mr. Forester, upon your becoming so soon a proselyte 
to politeness.” 

“To politeness !” said Forester, starting back. 

“Yes, my good Sir: real politeness only teaches us 
to save others from unnecessary pain ; and this you have 
just allowed to be your wish. — And now for the grand 
affair of Flora’s flower-pot. You are not bound by po- 
liteness to tell any falsehoods ; weak as she is, and a 
woman, I hope she can bear to hear the painful truth 
upon such an important occasion.” 

“ Why,” said Forester, who at last suffered his fea- 
tures to relax into a smile, “ the truth then is, that I 
don’t know whether the flower-pot be pretty or ugly ; 
but I was determined not to say it was pretty.” 

“ But why,” said Henry, “ did you look so heroically 
severe about the matter?” .v 

“The reason I looked grave,” said Forester,^ was, 
because I was afraid your sister Flora would be spoiled 
by all the foolish compliments that were paid to her and 
ner flower-pot.” 


FORESTER. 


37 


You are very considerate; and Flora, I am sure, is 
much obliged to you,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling, “ for 
being so clear-sighted to the dangers of female vanity. 
You would not then, with a safe conscience, trust the 
completion of her education to her mother, or to my- 
self?” 

I am sure, sir,” said Forester, who now, for the first 
time, seemed sensible that he had not spoken with per- 
fect propriety, “ I would not interfere impertinently for 
the world. You are the best judges; only I thought 
parents were apt to be partial. Henry has saved my 
life, and I am interested for every thing that belongs to 
him. S(j I hope, if I said any thing rude, you will at- 
tribute it to a good motive. I wish the flower-pot had 
never made its appearance, for it has made me appear 
very impertinent.” 

Flora laughed with so much good humour at his odd 
method of expressing his contrition, that even Forester 
acknowledged the influence of engaging manners and 
sweetness of temper. Fie lifted up the flower-pot, so as 
completely to screen his face, and, while he appeared to 
be examining it, he said, in a low voice, to Henry, 

She is above the foibles of her sex.” 

^^Oh, Mr. Forester, take care !” cried Flora. 

‘^Of what?” said Forester, starting. 

"It is too late now,” said Flora. 

And it was too late : — F^orester, in his awkward man- 
ner of lifting the flower-pot and its painted case, had 
put his thumbs into the mould, with which the flower- 
pot had been newly filled. It was quite soft and wet. 
Flora, when she called to him, saw the two black thumbs 
just ready to stamp themselves upon her work, and her 
warning only accelerated its fate; for the instant she 
spoke, the thumbs closed upon the painted covei;ing, 
and Forester was the last to perceive the mischief that 
he had done. 

There was no possibility of effacing the stains, nor 
was there time to repair the damage, for the ball was to 
commence in a few hours, and Flora was obliged to send 
her disfigured work without having had the satisfaction 

D 


38 


MORAL TALES. 


of hearing the ejaculation which Forester pronounced 
in her praise behind the flower-pot. 


THE BALL. 

Henry seized the moment when Forester was soft- 
ened by the mixed effect of Dr. Campbell’s raillery and 
Flora’s good humour, to persuade him that it would be 
perfectly consistent with sound philosophy to > dress 
himself for a ball, nay, even to dance a country-dance. 
The word reel, to which Forester had taken a dislike, 
Henry prudently forbore to mention ; and Flora, observ- 
ing and artfully imitating her brother’s prudence, sub- 
stituted the word hays instead of reels in her conversa- 
tion. When all the party were ready to go to the ball, 
and the carriages at the door. Forester was in Dr. 
Campbell’s study, reading the natural history of the 
elephant. 

. “Come,” said Henry, who had been searching for 
him all over the house, “ we are waiting for you : I’m 
glad to see you dressed — come!” 

“ I wish you would leave me behind,” said Forester, 
who seemed to have relapsed into his former unsociable 
humour, from having been left half an hour in his be- 
loved solitude ; nor would Henry probably have pre- 
vailed, if he had not pointed to the print of the ele- 
phant.* “ That mighty animal, you see, is so docile 
that he lets himself be guided by a young boy,” said 
Henry : “and so must you.” 

As he spoke he pulled Forester gently, who thought 
he could not show less docility than his favourite ani- 
mal. When they entered the ball-room, Archibald Mac- 
kenzie asked Flora to dance, while Forester was con- 
sidering where he should put his hat. “ Are you going 


♦ Cabinet of Quadrupeds. 


FORESTER. 


39 


to dance without me ? I thought I had asked you to 
dance with me. I intended it all the time we were 
coming in the coach.” 

Flora thanked him for his kind intentions; while Ar- 
chibald, with a look of triumph, hurried his partner 
away, and the dance began. Forester saw this trans- 
action in the most serious light, and it afforded him 
subject for meditation till at least half a dozen country- 
dances had been finished. In vain the Berwick Jockey, 
the Highland Laddie, and the Flowers of Edinburgh 
were played; ‘Mhey suited not the gloomy habit” of 
his soul. He fixed himself behind a pillar, proof against 
music, mirth, and sympathy : he looked upon the dancers 
with a cynical eye. At length he found an amusement 
that gratified his present splenetic humour; he applied 
both his hands to his ears, effectually to stop out the 
sound of the music, that he might enjoy the ridiculous 
spectacle of a number of people capering about without 
any apparent motive. Forester’s attitude caught the 
attention of some of the company ; indeed it was strik- 
ingly awkward. His elbows stuck out from his ears, 
and his head was sunk beneath his shoulders. Archi- 
bald Mackenzie was delighted beyond measure at his 
figure, and pointed him out to his acquaintance with all 
possible expedition. The laugh and the whisper circu- 
lated with rapidity. Henry, who was dancing, did not 
perceive what was going on till his partner said to him, 
“ Pray, who is that strange mortal?” 

My friend,” cried Henry : ‘‘ will you excuse me 
for one instant?” And he ran up to Forester, and 
roused him from his singular attitude. He is,” con- 
tinued Henry, as he returned to his partner, “ an ex- 
cellent young man, and he has superior abilities ; we 
must hot quarrel with him for trifles.” 

With what different eyes different people behold the 
same objects ! While Forester had been stopping hii 
ears. Dr. Campbell, who had more of the nature of the 
laughing than of the weeping philosopher, had found 
much benevolent pleasure in contemplating the festive 
scene. Not that any folly or ridicule escaped his keen 


40 


MORAL TALES. 


penetration ; but he saw every thing with an indulgent 
eye ; and, if he laughed, laughed in such a manner that 
even those who were the objects of his pleasantry could 
scarcely have forborne to sympathize in his mirth. 
Folly, he thought, could be as effectually corrected by 
the tickling of a feather as by the lash of the satirist. 
When Lady Margaret M^^Gregor and Lady Mary Mac- 
intosh, for instance, had almost forced their unhappy 
partners into a quarrel, to support their respective 
claims to precedency. Dr. Campell, who was appealed 
to as the relation of both the furious fair ones, decided 
the difference expeditiously, and much to the amuse- 
ment of the company, by observing, that, as the pre- 
tension of each of the ladies were incontrovertible, and 
precisely balanced, thei^ was but one possible method 
of adjusting their precedency — by their age. He was 
convinced, he said, that the youngest lady would with 
pleasure yield precedency to the elder. The contest 
was now which should stand the lowest, instead of 
which should stand the highest, in the dance : and 
when the proofs of seniority could not be settled, the 
fair ones drew lots for their places and submitted that 
to chance which could not be determined by prudence. 

Forester stood beside Dr. Campbell while all this 
passed, and Avasted a considerable portion of virtuous 
indignation upon the occasion. “ And look at that ab- 
surd creature !” exclaimed Forester, pointing out to Dr. 
Campbell a girl who was footing and pounding for 
fame at a prodigious rate. Dr. Campbell turned from 
the pounding lady to observe his own daughter Flora, 
and a smile of delight came over his countenance : for 
‘‘parents are apt to be partial ” — especially those who 
have such daughters as Flora. Her light figure and 
graceful agility attracted the attention even of many 
impartial spectators ; but she was not intent upon ad- 
miration : she seemed to be dancing in the gayety of 
her heart; and that was a species of gayety in which 
every one sympathized, because it was natural, and of 
which every one approved, because it was innocent. 
There was a certain delicacy mixed with her sportive 


FORESTER. 


4 ] 


humour, which seemed to govern, without restraining, , 
the tide of her spirits. Her father’s eye was following 
her as she danced to a lively Scotch tune, when Fores- 
ter pulled Dr. Campbell’s cane, on which he was lean- 
ing, and exclaimed, “Doctor, I’ve just thought of an 
excellent plan for a tragedy !” 

“A tragedy!” repeated Dr. Campbell, with un- 
feigned surprise; “are you sure you don’t mean a 
comedy ?” 

Forester persisted that he meant a tragedy, and was 
proceeding to open the plot, — “ Don’t force me to your 
tragedy now,” said Dr. Campbell, “ or it will infallibly 
be condemned. I cannot say that I have my buskin on ; 
and I advise you to take yours off. Look, is that the 
tragic muse 1” 

Forester was astonished to find that so great a man 
as Dr. Campbell had so little the power of abstraction ; 
and he retired to muse upon the opening of his tragedy 
in a recess under the music gallery. But here he was 
not suffered long to remain undisturbed; for near this 
spot Sir Phillip Gosling presently stationed himself ; 
Archibald Mackenzie, who left off dancing as soon as 
Sir Philip entered the room, came to the half-intoxicated 
baronet; and they, with some other young men worthy 
of their acquaintance, began so loud a contest concern- 
ing the number of bottles of claret which a man might, 
could, or should drink at a sitting, that even Forester’s 
powers of abstraction failed, and his tragic muse took 
her flight. 

“Supper! supper! thank God !” exclaimed Sir Phi- 
lip, as supper was now announced. “ I’d never set my 
foot in a ball-room,” added he, with several suitable 
oaths, if it was not for the supper.” 

“ Is that a rational being ?” cried Forester to Dr. 
Campbell, after Sir Philip had passed them. 

“ Speak a little lower,” said Dr. Campbell, “ or he 
will infallibly prove his title to rationality by shoot- 
ing you, or by making you shoot him, through the 
head,” 

“ But, sir,” said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, 
d2 


42 


MORAL TALES. 


while all the rest of the company were going down to 
supper, “^how can you bear such a number of foolish, 
disagreeable people with patience?” 

What would you have me do ?” said Dr. Camp- 
bell. “ Would you have me get up and preach in the 
middle of a ball-room? Is it not as Well, since we are 
here, to amuse ourselves with whatever can afford us 
any amusement, and to l^eep in good humour with all 
the world, especially with ourselves? — and had we not 
better follow the crowd to supper?” 

Forester went down stairs j but as he crossed an an- 
techamber which led to the supper-room, he exclaimed, 
“ If I were a legislator, I would prohibit balls.” • 

‘^And if you were a legislator,” said Dr. Campbell, 
pointing to a tea-kettle which was on the fire in the 
antechamber, and from the spout of which a gray cloud 
of vapour issued— if you were a legislator, would not 
you have stoppers wedged tight into the spouts of all 
tea-kettles in your dominions?” 

*‘No, sir,” said Forester; “they would burst.” 

“And do you think that folly would not burst, and 
do more mischief than a tea-kettle in the explosion, if 
you confined it .so tight ?” 

Forester would willingly have staid in the antecham- 
ber to begin a critical dissection of this allusion ; but Dr. 
Campbell carried him forwards into the supper-room. 
Flora had kept a sent for her father; and Henry met 
them at the door. 

“ 1 was just coming to seek for you, sir,” said he to 
his father. “Flora began to think you were lost.” 

“ No,” said Dr. Campbell, “ I was only detained by 
a would-be Cato, who wanted me to quarrel with the 
whole world, instead of eating my supper. What would 
you advise me to eat. Flora?” said he, seating himself 
beside her. 

“Some of this trifle, papa;” and, as she lightly re- 
moved the flowers with which it was ornamented, her 
father said, “Yes, give me some trifle. Flora. Some 
characters are like that trifle — flowers and light froth 
the top, and solid, good sweetmeat beneath.” 


FORESTER. 


43 


Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some 
trifle. “ But I don’t see any use in the flowers, sir,” 
said he. 

Nor any. beauty,” said Dr. Campbell. 

Forester picked the troublesome flowers out of his 
trifle, and ate a quantity of it sufficient for a stoic. To- 
wards the end of the supper, he took some notice of 
Henry, who had made se^ral ineffectual efforts to 
amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as seemed to 
suit the time and place. Time and place were never 
taken into Forester’s consideration : he was secretly 
displeased with his friend Henry for having danced all 
the evening instead of sitting still; and he looked at 
Henry’s partner with a scrutinizing eye. So,” said 
he, at last, I observe I have not been thought 
worthy of your conversation to-night: this is what 
gentlemen, polite gentlemen, who dance reels, call friend- 
ship !” 

If I had thought that you would have taken it ill I 
should dance reels,” said Henry, laughing, I would 
have made the sacrifice of a reel at the altar of friend- 
ship; but we don’t come to a ball to make sacrifices to 
friendship, but to divert ourselves.” 

If we can,” said Forester, sarcastically : here he 
was prevented from reproaching his friend any longer, 
for a party of gentlemen began to sing catches, at the 
desire of the rest of company. 

Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsen- 
sical words that were sung; and he was composing an 
^say upon the power of the ancient bards, and the 
effect of national music, when Flora’s voice interrupted 
him : Brother,” said she, “ I have won my wager.” 

The wager was, that Forester would not during supper 
observe the geranium that was placed in the middle of 
the table. 

As soon as the company was satisfied, both with their 
supper and their songs, Henry, whose mind was always 
present, seized the moment when there was silence to 
turn the attention of the company towards the object 
upon which his own thoughts were intent. The lady 


44 


MORAL TALES. 


patroness, the mistress of the canary-bird, had performed 
her promise : she had spoken to several of her acquaint- 
ance concerning the tyrannical school-mistress ; and 
now, fixing the attention of the company upon the ge- 
ranium, she appealed to Henry Campbell, and begged 
him to explain its history. A number of eager eyes 
turned upon him instantly; and Forester felt that if he 
had been called upon in^uch a manner he could not 
have uttered a syllable. He now felt the great advan- 
tage of being able to speak without hesitation or embar- 
rassment, before numbers. When Henry related the 
poor little girl’s story, his language and manner were 
so unaffected and agreeable that he interested every one 
who heard him in his cause. A subscription was im- 
mediately raised; every body was eager to contribute 
something to the child who had been so ready, for her 
old grandmother’s sake, to part with her favourite ge- 
ranium, The lady who superintended the charity- 
school agreed to breakfast the next morning at Dr. 
Campbell’s, and to go from his house to the school 
precisely at the hour when the school-mistress usually- 
set her unfortunate scholars to their extra task of spiur 
ning., 

Forester was astonished at all this ; he did not con- 
sider that negligence and inhumanity are widely differ- 
ent. The lady patronesses had, perhaps, been rather 
negligent in contenting themselves with seeing the 
' charity-children show well in procession to church, and 
they had not sufficiently inquired into the conduct of the 
school-mistress ; but as soon as the facts were properly 
stated, the ladies were eager to exert themselves, ani 
candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in 
trusting so much to the reports of the superficial visiters, 
who had always declared that the school was going on 
perfectly well. 

“ More people who are in the wrong,” said Dr. 
Campbell to Forester, ‘‘would be corrected, if some 
people who are in the right had a little candour and pa^ 
tience joined with their other virtues.” 

As the company rose from the supper-table, several 


FORESTER. 


45 


young ladies gathered round the geranium to admire 
Flora’s pretty flower-pot. The black stains, however, 
struck every eye. Forester was standing by, rather em- 
barrassed. Flora, with her usual good-nature, refrained 
from all explanation, though the exclamations of ‘‘ How 
was that done V ’ — Who could have done that ?” were 
frequently repeated. 

“ It was an accident,” said Flora; and, to change 
the conversation, she praised the beauty of the geranium ; 
she gathered one of the fragrant leaves, but as she was 
going to put it among the flowers in her bosom, she 
observed she had dropped her moss-rose. It was a 
rarity at this time of year: it was a rose which Henry 
Campbell had raised in a conservatory of his own con- 
struction. 

“ Oh ! my brother’s beautiful rose ! ” exclaimed Flora. 

Forester, who had been much pleased by her good- 
nature about the stains on the flower-pot, now, contrary 
to his habits, sympathized with her concern for the loss 
of her brother’s moss-rose. He exerted himself so far 
as to search under the benches and under the supper- 
table. He was fortunate enough to find it; and, eager 
to restore the prize, he, with more than his usual gal- 
lantry, but not with less than his customary awkward- 
ness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his 
body over the bench, pushed his arm between two 
young ladies into the midst of the g’roup which sur- 
rounded Flora. As his arm extended his wrist appeared, 
and at the sight of that wrist all the young ladies shrank 
back with unequivocal tokens of disgust. They whis- 
pered — they tittered ; and many expressive looks were 
lost upon our hero, who still resolutely held out the 
hand upon which every eye was fixed. Here’s your 
rose! Is not this the rose?” said he, still advancing 
tlie dreaded hand to Flora, whose hesitation and blushes 
surprised him. Mackenzie burst into a loud laugn; 
and in a whisper, which aii the ladies could hear, told 
Forester, that “ Miss Campbell was afraid to take the 
rose out of his hands, lest she should catch from him 
what he had caught from the carter who had brought 


46 


MORAL TALES. 


him to Edinburgh, or from some of his companions at 
the cobbler’s.’^ 

Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprang 
over the bench, rushed between Flora and another lady, 
made towards the door in a straight line, pushing every 
thing before him, till a passage was made for- him by 
the astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if 
he had been a mad dog. 

“Forester!’’ cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who 
were standing upon the steps before the door, speaking 
about the carriages ; “ What’s the matter? Where are 
you going? The carriage is coming to the door.” 

“ 1 had rather walk — don’t speak to me,” said Fores- 
ter; “ I’ve been insulted : I am in a passion, but I can 
command myself. I did not knock him down. Pray 
let me pass !’’ 

Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with 
the strength of an enraged animal from his keepers; 
and he must have found his way home by instinct, for 
he ran on without considering how he went. He 
snatched the light from the servant who opened the 
door at Dr. Campbell’s — hurried to his own apartment 
— locked, double locked, and bolted the door — flung him- 
self into a chair, and taking breath, exclaimed, “ Thank 
God! I’ve done no mischief. Thank God! I didn’t knock 
him down. Thank God ! he is out of my sight, and I 
am cool now — quite cool : let me recollect it all.” 

Upon the coolest recollection. Forester could not re- 
concile his pride to his present circumstances. “ Archi- 
bald spoke the truth — why am I angry ? why was I 
angry, I mean?” He reasoned much with himself 
upon the nature of true and false shame : he represented 
to himself that the disorder which disfigured his hands 
was thought shameful only because it was vulgar ; that 
what was vulgar was not therefore immoral ; that the 
young tittering ladies who shrank back from him were 
not supreme judges of right and wrong; that he ought 
to despise their opinions, and he despised them with all 
his might for two or three hours, as he walked up and 
down his room with unremitting energy. At length 


FORESTER. 


47 


our peripatetic philosopher threw himself upon his bed, 
determined that his repose should not be disturbed by 
such tribes : he had by this time worked himself up to 
such a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could 
with composure meet the disapproving eyes of millions 
of his fellow-creatures ; but he was alone when he 
formed this erroneous estimate of the strength of the 
human mind. Wearied with passion and reason, he 
fell asleep, dreamed that he was continually presenting 
flowers which nobody would accept; awaked at the 
imaginary repetition of Archibald’s laugh, composed 
himself again to sleep, and dreamed that he was in a 
glover’s shop, trying on gloves, and that among a hun- 
dred pair which he pulled on, he could not find one that 
would fit him. Just as he tore the last pair in his hurry, 
he awaked, shook off his foolish dream, saw the sun 
rising between two chimneys many feet below his win- 
dows ; recollected that in a short time he should be sum- 
moned to breakfast ; that all the lady-patronesses were 
to be at this breakfasi; that he could not breakfast in 
gloves ; that Archibald would perhaps again laugh, and 
Flora perhaps again shrink back. He reproached him- 
self for his weakness in foreseeing and dreading this 
scene : his aversion to lady-patronesses and to balls was 
never at a more formidable height; he sighed for liberty 
and independence, which he persuaded himself were 
not to be had in his present situation. In one of his 
long walks he remembered to have seen, at some miles’ 
distance from the town of Edinburgh, a gardener and 
his boy, who were singing at their work. These men 
appeared to Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler 
who formerly was the object of his admiration; and he 
was persuaded that he should be much happier at the 
gardener’s cottage than he could ever be at Dr. Camp- 
bell’s house. 

I am not fit,” said he to himself, to live among idle 
gentlemen and ladies ; I should be happy if I were a 
useful member of society ; a gardener is a useful mem- 
ber of society, and I will be a gardener, and live witn 
gardeners.” 


•r 


MORAL TALES. 


4S 

Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn 
the preceding night at the fatal ball, dressed himself in 
his old coat, lied up a small bundle of linen, and took 
the road to the gardener’s. 


BREAKFAST. 

When Henry found that Forester was not in his room 
in the morning, he concluded that he had rambled out 
towards Salisbury Craigs, whither he talked the preced- 
ing day of going to botanize. 

am surprised,” said Dr. Campbell, ‘Uhat the 
young gentleman is out so early, for I have a notion 
that he has not had much sleep since we parted, unless 
he walks in his sleep, for he has been walking over my 
poor head half the night.” 

Breakfast went on — no Forester appeared. Lady Ca- 
therine began to fear that he had broken his neck upon 
Salisbury Craigs, and related all the falls she had ever 
had, or had ever been near having, in carriages, on 
horseback, or otherwise. She then entered into the 
geography of Salisbury Craigs, and began to dispute 
upon the probability of his having fallen to the east or 
to the west. 

My dear Lady Catherine,” said Dr. Campbell, “■ we 
are not sure that he has been upon Salisbury Craigs; 
whether he have fallen to the east or to the west, we 
cannot, therefore, conveniently settle.” 

But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination 
travelled fast, went on to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to 
whom the great Forester estate would go in case of any 
accident having happened or happening to the young 
gentleman before he should come of age. 

Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satis- 
faction upon this point, when a servant put a letter into 
his hands. Henry looked in great anxiety. Dr. Camp- 


FORESTER. 


49 


oell glanced his eye over the letter, put it into his 
pocket, and desired the servant to show the person who 
brought the letter into his study. 

It’s only a little boy,” said Archibald ; “ I saw him 
as I passed through the hall.” 

“Cannot a little boy go into my study?” said Dr. 
Campbell, coolly. 

Archibald’s curiosity was strongly excited, and he 
slipped out of the room a few minutes afterward, resolved 
to speak to the boy, and to discover the purpose of his 
embassy. But Dr. Campbell was behind him before he 
was aware of his approach, and just as Archibald began 
to cross-examine the boy in these words, “ So you came 
from a young man who is about my size!” Dr. Camp- 
bell put both his hands upon his shoulders, saying, 

He came from a young man who does not in the least 
resemble you, believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie.” 

Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed 
by the civilly contemptuous look with which Dr. Camp- 
bell pronounced these words, that he retired from the 
study without even attempting any of his usual equivo- 
cating apologies for his intrusion. Dr. Campbell now 
read Forester’s letter. It was as follows : 

“ Dear Sir, 

“Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I 
am not insensible of your kindness. For the step I have 
taken, I can offer no apology merely to my guardian ; 
but you have treated me, Dr. Campbell, as your friend, 
and I shall lay my whole soul open to you. 

“Notwithstanding your kindness, — noUvithstanding 
the friendship of your son Henry, whose excellent quali- 
ties I know how to value, I most ingenuously own to 
you that I have been far from happy in your house. I 
feel that I cannot be at ease in the vortex of dissipation j 
and the more I see of the higher ranks of society, the 
more I regret that I was horn a gentlemim. Neither my 
birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain me from 
pursuing that line of life which, I am persuaded, leads 
■ to virtue and tranquillity. Let those who have no vir- 


50 


, MORAL TALES. 


tuous indignation obey the voice of fashion, and at hex 
commands let her slaves eat the bread of idleness till it 
palls upon file sense! ! reproach myself with having 
yielded, as 1 have done of late, my opinions to the per- 
suasions of friendship ; my mind has become enervated, 
and I must fly from the fatal contagion. Thank Hea- 
ven, I have yet the power to fly : I have yet sufficient 
force to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the 
mental degeneracy of the base monarch who hugged 
his fetters because they were of gold. 

I am conscious of powers that fit me for something 
better than to waste my existence in a ball-room ; and I 
will not sacrifice my liberty to the absurd ceremonies of 
daily dissipation. I, that have been the laughing-stock 
of the mean and frivolous, have yet sufficient manly 
pride unextinguished in my breast to assert my claim 
to your esteem : to assert that I never have committed, 
or shall designedly commit, any action unwortlfy of the 
friend of your son. 

I do not write to Henry, lest I should any way in- 
volve him in my misfortunes: he is formed to shine in 
the polite world, and his connexion with me might tar- 
nish the lustre of his character in the eyes of the ‘ nice 
judging fair.’ I hope, however, that he will not utterly 
discard me from his heart, though 1 cannot dance a reel. 
I beg that he will break open the lock of the trunk that 
is in my room, and take out of it my Goldsmith’s Ani- 
mated Nature, which he seemed to like. 

‘Hn my table-drawer there are my Martyn’s Letters 
on Botany, in which you will fi^ a number of plants 
that I have dried for Flora — Mus Flora Campbell, I 
should say. After what passed last night, I can scarcely 
hope they will be accepted. I would rather have them 
burned than refused j therefore please to burn them, and 
say nothing more upon the subject. Dear Sir, do not 
judge harshly of me ; I have had a severe conflict with 
myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would 
rather that you should judge of me with severity than 
that you should extend to me the same species of induk 


FORESTER. 51 

gence with which you last night viewed the half-in- 
toxicated baronet. 

“ I can bear any thing but contempt, 

“ Yours, &c, 

“"P. S. I trust that you will not question the bearer; 
he knows where I am ; I therefore put you on your 
guard. I mean to earn my own bread as a gardener; I 
have always preferred the agricultural to the commercial 
system. 

To this letter, in which the mixture of sense and 
extravagance did not much surprise Dr. Campbell, he 
returned the following answer : — 

My dear cobbler, gardener, orator, or by whatever 
other name you choose to be addressed, I am too old to 
be surprised at any thing, otherwise I might have been 
rather surprised at some things in your eloquent letter. 
You tell me that you have the power to fly, and that 
you do not hug your chains, though they are of gold ! 
Are you an alderman, or Dedalus ? or' are these only 
figures of speech? You inform me that you cannot 
live in the vortex of dissipation, or eat the bread of idle- 
ness, and that you are determined to be a gardener. 
These things seem to have no necessary connexion with 
each other. Why you should reproach yourself so bit- 
terly fbr havmg spent one evening of your life in a ball- 
room, which I suppose is what you allude to when you 
speak of a vortex of dissipation, I am at a loss to dis- 
cover. And why you cannot, with so much honest 
pride yet unextinguished in your breast, find any occu- 
pation more worthy of your talents, and as useful to 
society as that of a gardener, I own puzzles me a little. 
Consider these things coolly ; return to dinner, and we 
will compare at our leisure the advantages of the mer- 
cantile and the agricultural system. I forbear to ques- 
tion your messenger, as you desire; and I shall not 
show your letter to Henry till after we have dined. I 
hope by that time you will insist upon my burning it; 
which, at your request, I shall do with pleasure, al* 


52 


MORAL TALES. 


though it contains several good sentences. As T am not 
yet sure you have departed this life, I shall not enter 
upon my office of executory I shall not break open the 
lock of your trunk (of which I hope you ^will some 
time, when your mind is less exalted, find the key), nor 
shall 1 stir in the difficult case of Flora’s legacy. When 
next you write your will, let me, for the sake of your 
executor, advise you to be more precise in your direc- 
tions; for what can be done if you order him to give 
and burn the same thing in the same sentence? As you 
have, among your other misfortunes, the misfortune to 
be born heir to five or six thousand a year, you should 
learn a little how to manage your own affairs, lest you 
should, among your j?oor or rich companions, meet with 
some who are not quite so honest as yourself. 

If, instead of returning to dine with us, you should 
persist in your gardening scheme, I shall have less 
esteem for your good sense, but I shall forbear to re- 
proach you. 1 shall leave you to learn by your own 
experience, if it be not in my power to give you the 
advantages of mine gratis. But, at the same time, I shall 
discover where you are, and shall inform myself exactly 
of all your proceedings. This, as your guardian, is my 
duty, J should further warn you, that I shall not, while 
you choose to live in a rank below your own, supply 
you with your customary yearly allowance. Two hun- 
dred guineas a year would be an extravagant allowance 
in your present circumstances. 1 do not mention money 
with any idea of influencing your generous mind by 
mercenary motives ; but it is necessary that you should 
not deceive yourself by inadequate experiments : you 
cannot be rich and poor at the same time. I gave you 
the day before yesterday five ten-pound notes for your 
last quarterly allowance; I suppose you have taken 
these with you, therefore you cannot be in any imme- 
diate distress for money. I arn sorry, I own, that you 
are so well provided, because a man who has fifty 
guineas in his pocket-book cannot distinctly feel what 
it is to- be compelled to earn his own bread. 

Do not, my dear ward, think me harsh ; my friend- 


FORESTER. 


53 


ship for you gives me courage to inflict present pain 
with a view to your future advantage. You must not 
expect to see any thing of your friend Henry until you 
return to us. I shall, as his father and your guardian, 
request that he will trust implicitly to my prudence upon 
this occasion ; that he will make no inquiries concern- 
ing you ; and that he will abstain from all connexion 
with you while you absent yourself from your friends. 
You cannot live among the vulgar (by the vulgar I 
mean the ill-educated, the ignorant, those who have 
neither noble sentiments nor agreeable manners), and 
at the same time enjoy the pleasures of cultivated socie- 
ty. I shall wait, not without anxiety, till your choice 
be decided. 

‘^Believe me to be 
“ Your sincere friend and guardian, 

“ H. Campbell.’’ 

As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter 
he returned to the company. The ladies, after break- 
fast, proceeded to the charity-school; but Henry was 
so anxious to learn what was become of his friend For- 
ester, that he could scarcely enjoy the effects of his 
own benovolent exertions. It was with difficulty, such 
as he had never before experienced, that Dr. Campbell 
obtained from him the promise to suspend all inter- 
course with Forester. Henry’s first impulse when he 
read the letter, which his father now found it prudent 
to show him, was to search for his friend instantly. 
“ I am sure,” said he, I shall be able to find him out ; 
and, if I can but see him and speak to him, I know I 
could prevail upon him to return to us.” 

‘^Yes,” said Dr. Campbell, perhaps you might 
persuade him to return ; but that is not the object : un- 
less his understanding be convinced, what should we 
gain ?” 

‘‘ It should be convinced. I could convince him,” 
cried Henry. ' 

I have, my dear son,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling,. 

the highest opinion of your logic and eloquence ; but 
E 2 


54 


MORAL TALES. 


are your reasoning powers stronger to-day than they 
were yesterday ? Have you any new arguments to 
produce? I thought you had exhausted your whole 
store without effect.” 

Henry paused. 

Believe me,” continued his father, lowering his 
voice, “I am not insensible to your friend’s good, and, 
I will say, great qualities ; I do not leave him to suffer 
evils without feeling as much perhaps as you can do ; 
but I am convinced that the solidity of his character 
and the happiness of his whole life will jdepend upon 
the impression that is now made upon his mind by re- 
alities. He will see society as it is. He has abilitiy 
and generosity of mind which will make him a first- 
rate character, if his friends do not spoil him out of false 
kindness.’^ 

Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his fa- 
ther, and gave him the promise which he desired. 

“ But,” added he, I still have hopes from your let- 
ter, — I should not be surprised to see Forester at dinner 
to-day.’^ 

I should,” said Dr. Campbell. 

Dr. Campbell, alas ! was right. Henry looked eager- 
ly towards the door every time it opened when they 
were at dinner; but he was continually disappointed. 
Flora, whose gayety usually enlivened the evenings, 
and agreeably relieved her father and brother after their 
morning studies, was now silent. 

While Lady Catherine’s volubility overpowered even 
the philosophy of Dr. Campbell, she wondered — she 
never ceased wondering — that Mr. Forester did not ap- 
pear ; and that the doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and Henry 
and Flora were not more alarmed. She proposed send- 
ing twenty different messengers after him. She was 
now convinced that he had not fallen from Salisbury 
Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her ladyship that 
he had a letter from him in his pocket, and that he was 
safe ; but she thought that there was imminent danger 
of his enlisting in a frolic, or, perhaps, marrying some 
cobbler’s daughter in a pet. She turned to Archibald 


FORESTER. 


55 


Mackenzie, and exclaimed, “ He was at a cobbler’s ! it 
could not be rnerely to mend his shoes. What sort of 
a lassy is the cobbler’s daughter? or has the cobbler 
a daughter?” 

She is hump-backed, luckily,” said Dr. Campbell, 
coolly. 

‘‘That does not signify,” said Lady Catherine; Pm 
convinced she is at the bottom of the whole mystery; 
for I once hegfrd Mr. Forester say — and Pm sure you 
must recollect it. Flora, my dear, for he looked at you 
at the time — I once heard him say thai personal beauty 
was no merit, and that ugly people ought to be liked — 
or some such thing — out of humanity. Now, out of 
humanity, with his odd notions, it’s ten to one. Dr, 
Campbell, he marries this cobbler’s hump-backed daugh- 
ter. Pm sure, if I was his guardian, I could not- rest an 
instant with such a thought in my head.” 

“ Nor I,” said Dr. Campbell, quietly ; and in spite of 
her ladyship’s astonishment, remonstrances, and conjec- 
tures, he maintained his resolute composure. 


✓ 


THE GARDENER. 

The gardener who had struck Forester’s fancy was a 
square, thick, obstinate-eyed, hard-working, ignorant, 
elderly man, whose soul was intent upon his petty daily 
gains, and whose honesty was of that “ coarse-spun, 
vulgar sort”* which alone can be expected from men of 
uncultivated minds. Mr. M’Evoy, for that was the gar- 
dener’s name, was both good-natured and selfish; his 
views and ideas all centred in his own family.; and his 
affection was accumulated and reserved for two indivi- 
duals, — his son and his daughter. The son was not so 
industrious as the father; he was ambitious of seeing 
something of the world, and he consorted with all the 

* Mrs. Barbauld’s “Essay on the Inconsistency of Human Wishes.** 


56 


MORAL TALES. 


young ’prentices in Edinburgh who would condescend 
to forget that he was a country boy, and to remember 
that he expected, when his father should die, to be rich. 
Mr. M’Evoy’s daughter was an ugly, cross- looking girl, 
who spent all the money that she could either earn or 
save upon ribands and fine gowns, with which she fan- 
cied she could supply all the defects of her person. 

This powerful motive for her economy operated in- 
cessantly upon her mind, and she squeezed all that could 
possibly be squeezed for her private use from the frugal 
household. The boy whose place Forester thought him- 
self so fortunate to supply had left the gardener because 
he could not bear to work and be scolded without eating 
or drinking. 

The gardener willingly complied with our hero’s first 
request ; he gave him a spade, and he set him to work. 
Forester dug with all the energy of an enthusiast, and 
dined like a philosopher upon long kail; but long kail 
did not charm him so much the second day as it had 
done the first*; and the third day it was yet less to his 
taste ; besides, he began to notice the difference between 
oaten and wheatep bread. He however recollected that 
Cyrus lived, when he was a lad, upon water-cresses, — 
the black broth of the Spartans he likewise remembered, 
and he would not complain. He thought that he should 
soon accustom himself to his scanty homely fare. A 
number of the ‘disagreeable circumstances of poverty he 
had not estimated when he entered upon his new way 
of life ; and though at Dr. Campbell’s table he had often 
said to himself, “I could do very well without all these 
things,” yet, till he had actually tried the experiment, 
he had not clear ideas upon the subject. He missed a 
number of little pleasures and conveniences which he 
had scarcely noticed while they had every day presented 
themselves as matters of course. The occupation of 
digging was laborious, but it afforded no exercise to his 
mind, and he felt most severely the want cf Henry’s 
agreeable conversation; he had no one to whom he 
could now talk of the water-cresses of Cyrus, or the 
black broth of the Spartans ; he had no one with whom 


FORESTER. 


57 


Re could dispute concerning the Stoic or the Epicurean 
doctrines, the mercantile or the agricultural system. 
Many objections to the agricultural system which had 
escaped him occurred now to his mind ; and his com- 
passion for the worms, whom he was obliged to cut in 
pieces continually with his spade, acted every hour 
more forcibly upon his benevolent heart. He once at-r 
tempted to explain his feelings for the worms to the 
gardener, who stared at him with all the insolence of 
ignorance, and bade him mind his work with a tone of 
authority which ill suited Forester’s feelings and love 
of independence. 

‘‘Is ignorance thus to command knowledge? Is 
reason thus to be silenced by boorish stupidity?” said 
Forester to himself, as he recollected the patience and 
candour with which Dr. Campbell and Henry used to 
converse with him. He began to think that in cultivated 
society he had enjoyed more liberty of mind, more 
freedom of opinion, than he could taste in the company 
of an illiterate gardener. The gardener’s son, though 
his name was Colin, had no Arcadian simplicity, nothing 
which could please the classic taste of Forester, or 
which could recall to his mind the Eclogues of Virgil, 
or the Golden Age; the Gentle Shepherd, or the Ayr- 
shire Ploughman. Colin’s favourite holiday diversion 
was playing at this game, which is played with a 

bat loaded with lead, and with a ball which is harder than 
a cricket-ball, requires much strength and dexterity. For- 
ster used sometimes to accompany the gardener’s son 
to the Links * where numbers of people of difierent de- 
scriptions are frequently seen practising this diversion. 
Our hero was ambitious of excelling at the game of goff ; 
and, as he was not particularly adroit, he exposed him- 
self, in his first attempts, to the derision of the specta- 
tors, and he likewise received several severe blows. 
Colin laughed at him without mercy; and Forester 
could not. help comparing the rude expressions of his 
new companion’s untutored vanity with the unassum- 


♦ A lea or common near Edinburgh. 


58 


MORAL TALES. 


ing manners and unaffected modesty of Henry Camp* 
bell. Forester soon took an aversion to the game of 
goff, and recollected Scotch reels with less contempt. 

One evening, after having finished his task of dig- 
ging (for digging was now become a task), he was go- 
ing to take a walk to Duddingstone lake ; when Colin, 
who was at the same instant setting out for the Links, 
roughly insisted upon Forester’s accompanying him. 
Our hero, who was never much disposed to yield to 
the taste of others, positively refused the gardener’s son, 
with some imprudent expressions of contempt. From 
this moment Colin became his enemy, and, by a thou- 
sand malicious devices, contrived to show his vulgar 
hatred. 

Forester now, to his great surprise, discovered that 
hatred could exist in a cottage. Female vanity, he like- 
wise presently perceived, was not confined to the pre- 
cincts of a ball-room ; he found that Miss M’Evoy spent 
every leisure moment in the contemplation of her own 
coarse image in a fractured looking-glass. He once ven- 
tured to express his disapprobation of a many-coloured 
plaid in which Miss M’Evoy had arrayed herself for 
a dance; and the fury of her looks, and the loud- toned 
vulgarity of her conceit, were strongly contrasted with 
the recollection of Flora Campbell’s gentle manners and 
sweetness of temper. The painted flower-pot was pre- 
sent to his imagination, and he turned from the lady who 
stood before him with an air of disgust which he had 
neither the wish nor the power to conceal. The conse- 
quences of offending this high-spirited damsel our hero 
had not sufficiently considered : the brother and sister, 
who seldom agreed in any thing else, now agreed, though 
from different motives, in an eager desire to torment 
Forester. Whenever he entered the cottage, either to 
rest himself or to partake of those “savoury messes 
which the neat-handed Phillis dresses,” he 'was re 
ceived with sullen silence, or with taunting reproach. 
The old gardener, stupid as he was. Forester thought 
an agreeable companion compared with his insolent son 
and his vixen daughter. The happiest hours of the day 


FORESTER. 


59 


to our hero were those which he spent at his work ; his 
affections, repressed and disappointed, became a source 
of misery to him. 

“ Is there nothing in the world to which I can attach 
myself?’’ said Forester, as he one day leaned upon his 
spade in a melancholy mood. “Must I spend my life 
in the midst of absurd altercations? Is it for this that I 
have a heart and an understanding? No one here com- 
prehends one word I say — I am an object of contempt 
and hatred, while my soul is formed for the most bene- 
volent feelings, and capable of the most extensive views. 
And of what service am I to my fellow-creatures? 
Even this stupid gardener, even a common labourer, is 
as useful to society as I am! Compared with Henry 
Campbell what am I? Oh, Henry I — Flora! — could 
you see me at this instant you would — pity me!” 

But the fear of being an object of pity wakened For- 
ester’s pride ; and though he felt that he was unhappy, 
he could not bear to acknowledge that he had mistaken 
the road to happiness. His imaginary picture of rural 
felicity was not, to be sure, realized ; but he resolved to 
bear his disappointment with fortitude, to fulfil his en- 
gagements with his master the gardener, and then to 
seek some other more eligible situation. In the mean 
time his benevolence tried to expand itself upon the 
only individual in this family who treated him tolerably 
well : he grew fond of the old gardener, because there 
was nothing else near him to which he could attach him- 
self, not even a dog or a cat. The old man, whose tem- 
per was not quite so enthusiastical as Forester’s, looked 
upon him as an industrious simple young man, above 
the usual class of servants, and rather wished to keep 
him in his service, because he gave him less than the 
current wages. Forester, after his late reflections upon 
digging, began to think that, by applying his under- 
standing to the business of gardening, he might per- 
h,aps make some discoveries which should excite his 
master’s everlasting gratitude, and immortalize his own 
name. He pledged a shirt and a pair of stockings at a 
poor bookseller’s stall for some volumes upon garden- 


60 


MORAL TALES. 


ing and these, in spite of the ridicule of Colin and 
Miss M’Evoy, he studied usually at his meals. He at 
length met with an account of some experiments upon 
fruit-tree;s, which he thought would infallibly make the 
gardener’s fortune. 

“Did you not tell me,” said Forester to the gardener, 
“ that cherries were sometimes sold very high in Edin~ 
burgh ?” 

“ Five a penny,” said the gardener; and he wished, 
from the bottom of his heart, that he had a thousand 
cherry-trees, but he possesed only one. 

He was considerably alarmed when Forester proposed 
to him, as the certain means of making his fortune, to 
strip the bark off this cherry-tree, assuring him that a 
similar experiment had been tried and had succeeded ; 
that his cherry-tree would bear twice ns many cherries 
if he would only strip the bark from it. “Let me try 
one branch for an experiment, — I tvill try one branch.” 

But the gardener peremptorily forbade all experi- 
ments ; and, shutting Forester’s book, bade him leave 
such nonsense and mind his business. 

Provoked by this instance of tyrannical ignorance. 
Forester forgot his character of a servant hoy, and at 
length called his master an obstinate fool. 

No sooner were these words uttered than the gardener 
emptied the remains of his watering-pot coolly in Fores- 
ter’s face ; and, first paying him his wages, dismissed 
him from his service. 

Miss M‘Evoy, who was at work, seated at the door, 
made room most joyfully for Forester to pass, and ob- 
served that she had long since prophesied he would not 
do for them. 

Forester was now convinced that it was impossible to 
reform a positive old gardener, to make him try new ex- 
periments upon cherry-trees, or to interest him for the 
progress of science. He deplored the perversity of hu- 
man nature, and he began, when he reflected upon the 
characters of Miss M’Evoy and her brother, to believe 
that they were beings distinct from the rest of their spe- 
cies; he was, at all events, glad to have parted with 


FORESTER. 


61 


such odious companions. On his road to Edinburgh he 
had time for various reflections. 

Thirty shillings, then, with hard bodily labour, I 
have earned for one month’s service!” said Forester to 
himself. ‘‘Well, I will keep to my resolution. I will 
live upon the money I earn, and upon that alone; I will 
not have recourse to my bank notes till the last extrem- 
ity.” He took out his pocket-book, however, and looked 
at them, to see that they were safe. “ How wretched,” 
thought he, “ must be that being who is obliged to pur- 
chase, in his utmost need, the assistance of his fellow- 
creatures with such vile trash as this ! I have been un- 
fortunate in my first experiment; but all men are not 
like this selfish gardener and his brutal son, — incapable 
of disinterested friendship.” 

Here Forester was interrupted in his meditations by a 
young man, who accosted him with “ Sir, if I don’t 
mistake, I believe 1 have a key of yours.” 

Forester looked up at the young man’s face, and re- 
collected him to be the person who had nearly lost his 
life in descending for his key into the brewing-vat. 

“I knew you again, sir,” continued the brewer’s 
clerk, “ by your twirling those scissors upon your finger, 
just as you were doing that day at the brewery.” 

Forester was not conscious till this moment that he 
had a pair of scissors in his* hand; while the gardener 
was paying him his w’ages, to relieve his mmtvaise honte, 
our hero took up Miss M’Evoy’s scissors, which lay 
upon the table, and twirled them upon his fingers, as he 
used to do with a key. He was rather ashamed to per- 
ceive-that he had not yet cured himself of such a silly ha- 
bit. “ I thought the lesson I got at the brewery,” said 
he, “ would have cured me for ever of this foolish trick; 
but the diminutive chains of habit,* as somebody says, 
are scarcely ever heavy enough to be felt till they are 
too strong to be broken.” 

“ Sir/” said the astonished clerk, 

“O, I beg your pardon,” said our hero, who now per- 

*Dr. Johnson’s Vision of Theodore. 

F 


62 


MORAL TALES. 


ceived by his countenance that his observation on the 
peculiar nature of the chains of habit was utterly unin- 
telligible to him ; pray, sir, can you tell me what 
o’clock it is?” 

‘‘ Half-after-four — I am — sir,” said the clerk, pro- 
ducing his watch, with the air of a man who thought 
a watch a matter of some importance. “Hum! he 
can’t be a gentleman; he has no watch!” argued he 
with himself; and he looked at Forester’s rough apparel 
with astonishment. Forester had turned back, that he 
might return Miss M’Evoy her scissors. The brewer’s 
clerk was going in the same direction to collect some 
money for his master. As they walked on, the young 
man talked to our hero with good-nature, but with a 
species of familiarity which was strikingly different from 
the respectful manner in which he formerly addressed 
Forester, when he had seen him in a better coat, and in 
the company of a young gentleman. 

“ Yo'u have left Dr. Campbell’s then ?” said he, 
looking with curiosity. Forester replied that he had 
left Dr. Campbell’s, because he preferred earning his 
own bread to living an idle life among gentlemen and 
ladies. 

The clerk, at this speech, looked earnestly in Fores- 
ter’s face, and began to suspect that he was deranged 
in his mind. 

As the gravity of our hero’s looks and the sobriety 
of his demeanour did not give any strong indications of 
insanity, the clerk, after a few minutes’ consideration, 
inclined to believe that Forester concealed the truth 
from him: that probably he was some dependant of Dr. 
Campbell’s family : that he had displeased his friends, 
and had been discarded in disgrace. He was confirmed 
in these suppositions by Forester’s telling him, that he 
had just left the service of a gardener; that he did not 
know where to find a lodging for the night; and that 
he was in want of some employment, by which he 
might support himself independently. 

The clerk, who remembered with gratitude the intre- 
pidity with which Forester h^d hazarded his life to save 


FORESTER. 


63 


him the morning that he was at the brewery, and who 
had also some compassion for a young gentleman re- 
duced to poverty, told him that if he could write a good 
hand, knew any thing of accounts, and could get a 
character for 'punctuality (meaning to include honesty 
in this word) from any creditable people, he did not 
doubt that his master, who had large concerns, might 
find employment for him as an under-clerk. Forester’s 
pride was not agreeably soothed by the manner of this 
proposal, but he was glad to hear of a situation, to use 
the clerk’s genteel expression; and he moreover thought 
that he should now have an opportunity of comparing 
the commercial and agricultural systems. 

The clerk hinted that he supposed Forester would 
choose to make himself smart” before he called to 
offer himself at the brewery, and advised him to call 
about six, as by that time in the evening his master was 
generally at leisure. 

A dinner at a public-house (for our hero did not know 
where else to dine), and the further expense of a new 
pair of shoes, and some other articles of dress, almost 
exhausted his month’s wages : he was very unwilling 
to make any of these purchases, but the clerk assured 
him that they were indispensable; and, indeed, at last 
his appearance was scarcely upon a par with that of 
his friendly adviser. 


THE BET. 

Before we follow Forester to the brewery, we must 
request the attention of our readers to the history of a 
bet of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie’s. 

We have already noticed the rise and progress of 
this young gentleman’s acquaintance with Sir Philip 
Gosling. Archibald, 


61 


MORAL TALES. 


“ Whose ev’ry frolic had some end in view. 

Ne’er play’d the fool but play’d the rascal too.”* 

cultivated assiduously the friendship of this weak, dis- 
sipated, vain young baronet, in hopes that he might in 
process of time make some advantage of his folly. Sir 
Philip had an unfortunately high opinion of his own 
judgment; an opinion which he sometimes found it 
difficult to inculcate upon the minds of others, till he hit 
upon the compendious method of laying high wages in 
support of all his assertions. Few people chose to 
venture a hundred guineas upon the turn of a straw. 
Sir Philip, in all such contests, came off victorious; 
and he plumed himself much upon the success of his 
purse. Archibald affected the greatest deference for Sir 
Philip’s judgment; and as he observed that the baronet 

E iqued himself upon his skill as a jockey, he flattered 
im indefatigably upon this subject. He accompanied 
Sir Philip continually in his long visits to the livery- 
stables ; and he made himself familiarly acquainted with 
the keeper of the livery-stables, and even with the 
hostlers. So low can interested pride descend ! All this 
pains Archibald took, and more — for a very small 
object. He had set his fancy upon Sawney, one of 
his friend’s horses; and he had no doubt but that he 
should either induce Sir Philip to make him a present 
of this horse, or that he should jockey him out of it, by 
some well-timed bet. 

In counting upon the baronet’s generosity Archibald 
was mistaken. Sir Philip had that species of good na- 
ture which can lend, but not that which can give. He 
offered to lend the horse to Archibald most willingly ; 
but the idea of giving it was far distant from his imagi- 
nation. Archibald, who at length despaired of his 
friend’s generosity, had recourse to his other scheme of 
the wager. After having judiciou.sly lost a few guineas 
to Sir Philip in wagers, to confirm him in his extrava- 
gant opinion of his own judgment, Archibald, one 
evening, when the fumes of wine and vanity, operating 
together, had somewhat exalted the man of judgment’s 

♦ Anonymous. 


FORESTER. 


65 


imagination, urged him by artful, hesitating contradic- 
tion, to assert the most incredible things of one of his 
horses, to whom he had given the name of Favourite. 
Archibald knew, from the best authority — from the 
master of the livery-stables, who was an experienced 
jockey — that Favourite was by no means a match for 
Sawney; he therefore waited quietly till Sir Philip 
Gosling laid a very considerable wager upon the head 
of his ‘‘ Favourite.’^ Archibald immediately declared 
he could not, in conscience — that he could not, for the 
honour of Scotland, give up his friend Sawney. 

Sawney!’^ cried Sir Philip; ‘^Pll bet fifty guineas 
that Favourite beats him hollow at a walk, trot, or 
gallop, whichever you please.’^ 

Archibald artfully afected to be startled at this de- 
fiance; and, seemingly desirous to draw back, pleaded 
his inability to measure purses with such a rich man as 
Sir Philip, 

‘‘Nay, my boy,’’ replied Sir Philip, “that excuse 
sha’n’t stand you in stead. You have a pretty little 
pony there, that Lady Catherine has just given you; if 
you won’t lay me fifty guineas, will you risk your pony 
against my judgment?” 

Archibald had now brought his friend exactly to the 
point at which he had been long aiming. Sir Philip 
staked his handsome horse Sawney against Archibald’s 
sorry pony, upon this wager, that Favourite should, at 
the first trials, beat Sawney at a walk, a trot, and a 
gallop. 

Warmed with wine, and confident in his own judg- 
ment, the weak baronet insisted upon having the bet 
immediately decided. The gentlemen ordered out their 
horses, and the wager was to be determined upon the 
sands of Leith. 

Sir Philip Gosling, to his utter astonishment, found 
himself for once mistaken in his judgment. The 
treacherous Archibald coolly suffered him to exhale his 
passion in unavailing oaths, and at length rejoiced to 
hear him consoling himself with the boast that this was 
the first wager upon horse-flesh that he had ever lost 


MORAL TALES. 


G6 

in his life. The master of the livery-stables stared with 
well-affected incredulity, when Sir Philip, upon his 
return from the sands of Leith, informed him that 
Favourite had been beat hollow by Sawney ; and Ar- 
chibald, by his additional testimony, could scarcely con- 
vince him of the fact till he put two guineas into his 
hand, when he recommended his new horse Sawney to 
his particular care. Sir Philip, who was not gifted with 
quick observation, did not take notice of this last con- 
vincing argument. While this passed, he was talking 
eagerly to the hostler, who confirmed him in his opinion, 
which he still repeated as loud as ever, “ that Favourite 
ought to have won.’’ This point Archibald prudently 
avoided to contest; and he thus succeeded in duping 
and flattering his friend at once. 

“Sawney for ever!” cried Archibald, as soon as Sir 
Philip had left the stables. “Sawney for ever!” re- 
peated the hostler, and reminded Mackenzie that he had 
promised him half a guinea. Archibald had no money 
in his pocket ; but he assured the hostler that he would 
remember him the next day. The next day, however, 
Archibald, who was expert in parsimonious expedients, 
considered that he had better delay giving the hostler 
his half-guinea till it had been earned by his care of 
Sawney. 

It is the usual error of cunning people to take it for 
granted that others are fools. This hostler happened to 
be a match for our young laird in cunning; and as 
soon as he perceived that it Avas Archibald’s intention 
to cheat him of the interest of his half-guinea, he deter- 
mined to revenge himself in his care of Sawney. We 
shall hereafter see the success of his devices. 


THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE. 

Scarcely had Archibald Mackenzie been two days in 
possession of the long-wished-for object of his mean 


FORESTER. 


67 


soul, when he became dissaiistied with his own saddle 
and bridle, which certainly did not, as Sir Philip ob- 
served, suit his new horse. The struggles in Archi- 
bald’s mind, between his taste for expense and his habits 
of saving, were often rather painful to him. He had 
received from Lady Catherine a ten-guinea note when 
he first came to Dr. Campbell’s; and he had withstood 
many temptations to change it. One morning (the day 
that he had accompanied Plenry and Forester to the 
watchmaker’s) he was so strongly charmed by the 
sight of a watch-chain and seals, that he actually took 
his bank-note out of his scrutoire at his return home, 
put it into his pocket when he dressed for dinner, and 
resolved to call that evening at the watchmaker’s, to in- 
dulge his fancy by purchasing the watch-chain, and to 
gratify his family pride by getting his coat-of-arms 
splendidly engraven upon the seal. He called at the 
watchmaker’s, in company with Sir Philip Gosling, but 
he could not agree with him respecting the price of the 
chain and seals; and Archibald consoled himself with 
the reflection that his bank-note would still remain. He 
held the note in his hand while he higgled about the 
price of the watch chain. 

‘^Oh, d — n the expense!” cried Sir Philip. 

Oh, I mind ten guineas as little as any man,” said 
Archibald, thrusting the bank-note, in imitation of the 
baronet, with affected carelessness, into his waistcoat 
pocket. He was engaged that night to go to the play 
with Sir Philip, and he was much hurried in dressing. 
His servant observed that his waistcoat was stained, and 
looked out another for him. 

Now this man sometimes took the liberty of wearing 
his master’s clothes; and, when Archibald went to the 
play, the servant dressed himself in the stained waist- 
coat, to appear at a ball which was given that night in 
the neighbourhood, by some gentleman’s gentleman.” 
The waistcoat was rather too tight for the servant: he 
tore it; and, instead of sending it to the washerwoman’s 
to have the stain washed out, as his master had desired. 


68 MORAL TALES. 

he was now obliged to send it to the tailor’s to have it 
mended. 

Archibald’s sudden wish for a new saddle and bridle 
for Sawney could not be gratified without changing the 
bank-note; and, forgetting that he had left it in the 
pocket of his waistcoat the night that he went to the 
play, he searched for it in the scrutoire, in which he 
was accustomed to keep his treasures. He was greatly 
disturbed when the note was not to be found in the 
scrutoire ; he searched over and over again ; not a 
pidgeon-hole, not a drawer remained to be examined. 
He tried to recollect when he had last seen it, and at 
length remembered that he put it into his waistcoat 
pocket when he went to the watchmaker’s ; that he had 
taken it out to look at while he was in the shop; but 
whether he had brought it home safely or uot he could 
not precisely ascertain. His doubts upon this subject, 
however, he cautiously' concealed, r^olved, if possible, 
to make somebody or other answerable for his loss. 
He summoned his servant, told him that he had left a 
ten-guinea bank-note in his waistcoat pocket the night 
that he went to the play ; and that as the waistcoat 
was given into his charge, he must be answerable for 
the note. The servant boldly protested that he neither 
could nor would be at the loss of a note which he had 
never seen. 

Archibald now softened his tone ; for he saw that he 
had no chance of bullying the servant. “ I desired you 
to se^id it to the v/asherwoman’s,” said he. 

“ And so I jdid, sir,” said the man. 

This was true, but not the whole truth. He had 
previously sent the Avaistcoat to the tailor’s to have the 
rent repaired which it received the night he wore it at 
the ball. These circumstances the servant thought 
proper to suppress; and he Avas very ready to agree 
Avith his master in accusing the poor Avasherwoman of 
having stolen the note. The AvasherAvoman Avas ex- 
tremely industrious, and perfectly honest ; she had a 
large family, that depended upon her labour and upon 
her character for support. She Ava's astonished and 


FORESTER. 


69 


shocked at the charge that was brought against her; 
and declared, that, if she were able, she would rather 
pay the whole money at once than suffer any suspicion 
to go abroad against her. Archibald rejoiced to find 
her in this disposition ; and he assured her that the only 
method to avoid disgrace, a lawsuit, and ruin, was in- 
stantly to pay, or to promise to pay, the money. It 
was out of her power to pay it; and she would not 
promise what she knew she could not perform. 

Archibald redoubled his threats ; the servant stood by 
his master. The poor woman burst into tears, but she 
steadily declared that she was innocent; and no pro- 
mise could be extorted I’rom her, even in the midst of 
her terror. Though she had horrible, perhaps not ab- 
solutely visionary, ideas of the dangers of a lawsuit, 
yet she had some confidence in the certainty that justice 
was on her side. Archibald said that she might talk 
about justice as much as she pleased, but that she must 
prepare to submit to the laio. The woman trembled 
at the sound of these words; but, thouffh ignorant, 
she was no fool, and she had a friend in Dr. Camp- 
bell’s family, to whom she resolved to apply in her dis- 
tress. Henry Campbell had visited her little boy when 
he was ill, and had made him some small present; and 
though she did not mean to encroach upon Henry’s 
good-nature, she thought that he had so much learning, 
that he certainly could, without its costing her any 
thing, put her in the right way to avoid the law, with 
which she had been threatened by Archibald Mackenzie 
and his servant. 

Henry heard the story with indignation, such as 
Forester would have felt in similar circumstances ; but 
prudence tempered his enthusiastic feelings; and pru- 
dence renders us able to assist others, while enthusiasm 
frequently defeats its own purposes, and injures those 
whom it wildly attempts to serve. Henry, knowing 
the character of Archibald, governed himself accord- 
ingly ; he made no appeal to his feelings ; for he saw 
that the person must be deficient in humanity who 
could have threatened a defenceless woman with such 


70 


MORAL TALES. 


severity ; he did not speak of jifstice to the tyrannical 
laird, but spoke of law. He told Archibald, that being 
thoroughly convinced of the woman’s innocence, he 
had drawn up a statement of her case, which she, in 
compliance with his advice, was ready to lay before an 
advocate, naming the first counsel in Edinburgh. 

The young laird repeated, with a mixture of appre- 
hension and suspicion, “ Drawn up a case ! No ; you 
can’t know how to draw up cases; you are not a law- 
yer— you only say this to bully me.” 

Henry replied, that he was no lawyer; that he could, 
notwithstanding, state plain facts in such a manner, he 
hoped, as to make a case intelligible to any sensible 
lawyer ; that he meant to show what he had written to 
his father. 

‘‘You’ll show it to me first, won’t you?” said Ar- 
chibald, who wished to gain time for consideration. 

Henry put the paper which he had drawn up into 
his hands, and waited with a determined countenance 
beside him, while he perused the case. Archibald 
saw that Henry had abilities and steadiness to go 
through with the business ; the facts were so plainly 
and forcibly stated that his hopes even from law began 
to falter. He therefore talked about humanity — said 
he pitied the poor woman ; could not bear to think of 
distressing her; but that, at the same time, he had 
urgent occasion for money ; that if he could even re- 
cover five guineas of it, it would be something. He 
added, that he had debts which he could not, in honour, 
delay to discharge. 

Now, Henry had five guineas', which he had reserved 
for the purchase of some additions to his cabinet of 
mineralogy, and he offered to lend this money to 
Archibald, to pay the debts that he could not, in honour, 
delay to discharge, upon express condition that he should 
say nothing more to the poor woman concerning the 
bank-note. 

To this condition Archibald most willingly acceded; 
and as Henry, with generous alacrity, counted the five 
guineas into his hand, this mean, incorrigible being saiu 


FORESTER. 


71 


to himself, “ What fools these bookish young men are, 
after all! Though he can draw up cases so finely, Pve 
taken him in at last; and I wish it was ten guineas, in- 
stead of five!” 

Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices 
of this avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall 
now relieve ourselves by turning from the history of 
meanness to that of enthusiasm. The faults of For- 
ester we hope and wish to see corrected; but who can 
be interested for the selfish Archibald Mackenzie ? 


FORESTER A CLERK. 

We left Forester, when he was just going to offer 
himself as clerk to a brewer. The brewer was a pru- 
dent man ; and he sent one of his porters with a letter 
to Dr. Campbell, to inform him that a young lad, whom 
he had formerly seen in company with Mr. Henry 
Campbell, and who, he understood, was the doctor’s 
ward, had applied to him, and that he should be very 
happy to take him into his service, if his friends ap- 
proved of it, and could properly recommend him. In 
consequence of Dr. Campbell’s answer to the brewer’s 
letter. Forester, who knew nothing of the application 
to his friends, obtained the vacant clerkship. He did 
not, however, long continue in his new situation. At 
first, he felt happy, when he found himself relieved 
from the vulgar petulance of Miss M’Evoy and her 
brother Colin: in comparison with their rude ill-hu- 
mours, the clerks who were his companions appeared 
patterns of civility. By hard experience. Forester was 
taught to know that obliging manners in our compa- 
nions add something to the happiness of our lives. “ My 
mind to me a kingdom is,” was once his common 
answer to all that his friend Henry could urge in 
favour of the pleasures of society; but he began now 


72 


MORAL TALES. 


to suspect that, separated from social intercourse, his 
mind, however enlarged, would afford him but a dreary 
kingdom. 

He flattered himself that he could make a friend of 
the clerk who had found his key : this young man’s 
name was Richardson ; he was good-natured, but igno- 
rant; and neither his education nor his abilities distin- 
guished him from any other clerk in similar circum- 
stances. Forester invited him to walk to Arthur’s Seat, 
after the monotonous business of the day was over, but 
the clerk preferred walking on holidays in Prince’s 
street; and, after several ineffectual attempts to engage 
him in moral and metaphysical arguments, our hero 
discovered the depth of his companion’s ignorance with 
astonishment. Once, when he found that two of the 
clerks, to whom he had been talking of Cicero and Pliny, 
did not know any thing of these celebrated personages, 
he said, with a sigh. 

“But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unrol ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of their soul.” 

The word penunj, in this stanza, the clerks at least 
understood, and it excited their “ noble rage ;” they 
hinted that it ill became a person who did not dress 
nearly as well as themselves to give himself such airs, 
and to taunt his betters with poverty ; they said that 
they supposed, because he was an Englishman, as they 
perceived by his accent, he thought he might insult 
Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him to at- 
tempt any explanation ; their pride and their prejudices 
combined against him; and, though their dislike to him 
was not so outrageous as that of the gardener, gentle 
Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to make him uneasy 
in his situation. Richardson was as steady as could 
reasonably be expected ; but he showed so little desire 
to have “ the ample pa^e, nch with the spoils of time,” 
unrolled to him, that he excited our young scholar’s 
contempt. No friendships can be more unequal than 
those between ignorance and knowledge. We pass 


FORESTER. 


73 


over the journal of our hero’s hours which were spent 
in casting up and verifying accounts; tnis occupation, 
at length, he decided must be extremely injurious to 
the human understanding: ‘'All the higher faculties 
of my soul,” said he to himself, “are absolutely useless 
at this work, and I am reduced to a mere machine.” 
But there were many other circumstances, in the mer- 
cantile system, which Forester had not foreseen, and 
which shocked him extremely. The continual atten- 
tion to petty gain, the little artifices which a tradesman 
thinks himself justifiable in practising upon his custo- 
mers, could not be endured by his ingenuous mind. 
One morning the brewery was in an uncommon bustle; 
the clerks were all in motion. Richardson told Forester 
that they expected a visit in a few hours from the gauger 
and the supervisor, and that they were preparing for 
their reception. When the nature of these preparations 
was explained to Forester; when he was made to under- 
stand that the business and duty of a brewer’s clerk 
was to assist his master in evading certain clauses in 
certain acts of parliament; when he found that to trick 
a gauger was thought an excellent joke, he stood in 
silent moral astonishment. He knew about as much 
of the revenue laws as the clerks did of Cicero and 
Pliny ; but his sturdy principles of integrity could not 
bend to any of the arguments, founded on expediency, 
which were brought by his companions in their own 
and their master’s justification. He declared that he 
must speak to his master upon the subject immediately. 
His master was as busy as he could possibly be ; and 
when Forester insisted upon seeing him, he desired 
that he would speak as quickly as he could, for that he 
expected the supervisor every instant. Our hero de- 
clared that he could not, consistently with his princi- 
ples, assist in evading the laws of his country. The 
brewer stared, and then laughed; assured him that he 
had as great a respect for the laws as other people; that 
he did nothing but what every person in his situation 
was obliged to do in their own defence. Forester reso- 
lutely persisted in his determination against all clandes- 

G 


74 


MORAL TALES. 


tine practices. The brewer cut the matter short, by 
saying he had not time to argue; but that he did not 
choose to keep a clerk who was not in his interests ; 
that he supposed the next thing would be to betray him 
to his supervisor. 

am no traitor!’^ exclaimed Forester: I will 
not stay another instant with a master who suspects 
me.’’ 

The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance; 
but what exasperated Forester the most was, the com- 
posure of his friend Richardson during this scene, who 
did not even offer to shake hands with him when he 
saw him going out of the house : for Richardson had 
a good place, and did not choose to quarrel with his 
master for a person whom he now verily believed to be, 
as he had originally suspected, insane. 

‘^This is the world! — this is friendship!” said For- 
ester to himself. 

His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied 
him with eloquent invectives against human nature, 
even while he ardently desired to serve his fellow- 
creatures. He wandered through the streets of Edin- 
burgh, indulging himself alternately in misanthropic 
reflections and benevolent projects. One instant, he 
resolved to study the laws, that he might relbrm the re- 
venue laws; the next moment, he recollected his own 
passion for a desert island; and he regretted that he 
could not be shipwrecked in Edinburgh. 

The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester 
from his revery ; he looked up, and saw a thin pale man 
fiddling to a set of dancing-dogs that he was exhibiting 
upon the flags for the amusement of a crowd of men, 
women, and children. It was a deplorable spectacle; 
the dogs appeared so wretched, in the midst of the mer- 
riment of the spectators, that Forester’s compassion Vas 
moved, and he exclaimed. 

Enough, enough! — They are quite tired; here are 
some halfpence!” 

The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh 
spectators were yet to see the sight; and, though the 


FORESTER. 


75 


exhausted animals were but little inclined to perform 
their antic feats, their master twitched the rope that was 
fastened round their necks so violently, that they were 
compelled to renew their melancholy dance. 

Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler’s hand, 
and began an expostulation, not one word of which 
was understood by the person to whom it was addressed. 
A stout lad, who was very impatient at this interruption 
of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently 
from words he proceeded to blows. 

Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so 
able a boxer as his opponent. The battle was obsti- 
nately fought on both sides ; but, at length, our young 
Q^uixote received what has no name in heroic language, 
but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, 
covered with blood and bruises, he was carried by some 
humane passenger into a neighbouring house. It was 
a printer and bookseller’s shop. The bookseller treated 
him with humanity ; and, after advising him not to be 
so hastily engaged to be the champion of dancing-dogs, 
inquired who he was, and whether he had any friends 
in Edinburgh to whom he could send. 

This printer, from having been accustomed to con- 
verse with a variety of people, was a good judge of the 
language of gentlemen ; and, though there was nothing 
else in Forester’s manners which could have betrayed 
him, he spoke in such good language that the bookseller 
was certain that he had 'received a liberal education. 

Our hero declined telling his history ; but the printer 
was so well pleased with his conversation that he readily 
agreed to give him employment ; and as soon as he re- 
covered from his bruises. Forester was eager to learn 
the art of printing. 

The art of printing,” said he, has emancipated 
ma^ind, and printers ought to be considered as the 
most respectable benefactors of the human race.” 

Always warm in his admiration of every new phan- 
tom that struck his imagination, he was now persuaded 
that printers’ devils were angels, and that he should be 
supremely blessed in a printer’s office. 


76 


MORAL TALES. 


“ What employment so noble!’’ said he, as he first 
took the composing-stick in his hand — ‘‘what employ' 
ment so noble as that of disseminating knowledge over 
the universe !” 


FORESTER A PRINTER. 

It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity 
in his new trade ; his companions formed, with amazing 
celerity, whole sentences, while he was searching for 
letters which perpetually dropped from his awkward 
hands ; but he was ashamed of his former versatility, 
and he resolved to be steady to his present way of life. 
His situation at this printer’s was far better suited to 
him than that which he had quitted with so much dis- 
gust at the brewer’s. He arose early; and by great 
industry overcame all the difficulties which at first so 
much alarmed him. He soon became the most useful 
journeyman in the office. His diligence and good be- 
haviour recommended him to his master’s employers. 
Whenever any work was brought, Forester was sent 
for. This occasioned him to be much in the shop, 
where he heard the conversation of many ingenious men 
who frequented it ; and he spent his evenings in reading. 
His understanding had been of late uncultivated; but 
the fresh seeds that were now profusely scattered upon 
the vigorous soil took root and flourished. 

Forester was just at that time of life when opinions 
are valued for being new ; he heard varieties of the most 
contradictory assertions in morals, in science, in politics 
It is a great advantage to a young man to hear oppo- 
site arguments, — to hear all that can be said upon every 
subject. 

Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of 
notions which he had acquired from his education; he 
heard many whom he could not think his inferiors in 


FORESTER. 


77 


abilities, debating questions which he formerly imagined 
scarcely admitted of philosophic doubt. His mind be- 
came more humble; but his confidence in his own 
powers, after having compared himself with numbers, 
if less arrogant, was more secure and rational : he no 
longer considered a man as a fool the moment he dif- 
fered from him in opinion ; but he was still a little 
inclined to estimate the abilities of authors by the party 
lo which they belonged. This failing was increased 
rather than diminished by the company which he now 
kept. 

Among the young students who frequented Mr. ’s, 

the bookseller, was Mr. Thomas , who, from his 

habit of blurting out strange opinions in conversation, 
acquired the name of Tom Random. His head was con- 
fused between politics and poetry ; his arguments were 
paradoxical, his . diction florid, and his gesture some- 
thing between the spouting action of a player and the 
threatening action of a pugilist. 

Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from 
the first day he heard him speak. 

Tom Random asserted, that this great globe, and 
all that it inhabits,’’ must inevitably be doomed to de- 
struction, unless certain ideas of his own, in the govern- 
ment of the world, were immediately adopted by univer- 
sal acclamation. 

It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Fo- 
rester felt for his new friend ; it was for the first week 
blind, enthusiastic admiration — every thing that he had 
seen or heard before appeared to him trite and obsolete ; 
every person who spoke temperate common sense he 
heard with indifference or contempt; and all who were 
not zealots in literature, or in politics, he considered as 
persons whose understandings were so narrow, or 
whose hearts were so depraved, as to render them un- 
fit to hear themselves convinced.” 

Those who read and converse have a double chance 
of correcting their errors. 

Forester, most fortunately, about this time, happened 
to meet with a book which in some degree counteracted 
g2 


78 


MORAL TALES. 


the inflammatory efiects of Random’s conversation, 
and which had a happy tendency to sober his enthu- 
siasm, without lessening his propensity to useful exer- 
tions : this book was the life of Dr. Franklin. 

The idea that this great man began by being a printer 
interested our hero in his history ; and while he fol- 
lowed him, step by step, through his instructive narra- 
tive, Forester sympathized in his feelings, and observed 
how necessary the smaller virtues of order, economy, 
industry and patience were to Franklin’s great charac- 
ter and splendid success. He began to hope that it 
would be possible to do good to his fellow-creatures 
without overturning all existing institutions. 

About this time another fortunate coincidence hap- 
pened in Forester’s education. One evening, his friend 
Tom Random, who was printing a pamphlet, came, 

with a parly of his companions, into Mr. , the 

bookseller’s shop, enraged at the decision of a prize 
in a literary society to which they belonged. 

All the young partizans who surrounded Mr. Ran- 
dom loudly declared that he had been treated with the 
most flagrant injustice; and the author himself was too 
angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion. 

‘‘ Would you believe it?” said he to Forester, — my 
essay has not been thought worthy of the prize ! The 
medal has been given to the most wretched, tame, com- 
monplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in 
this world is done by corruption, by party, by secret 
influence!” 

At every pause the irritated author wiped his fore- 
head, and Forester sympathized in his feelings. 

In the midst of the author’s exclamations, a messenger 
came with the manuscript of the prize essay, and with 
the orders of the society to have a certain nuriiber of 
copies printed off with all possible expedition. 

Random snatched up the manuscript, and with all the 
fury of criticism began to read some of the passages 
which he disliked aloud. 

Though it was marred in the reading. Forester could 
not agree with his angry friend in condemning the per- 


FORESTER. 79 

formance. It appeared to him excellent writing and ex- 
cellent sense. 

Print it — print it then, as fast as you can — that is 
your business — that’s what you are paid for. Every 
one for himself,” cried Random, insolently throwing 
the manuscript at Forester : and as he flung out of the 
shop with his companions, he added, with a contemp- 
tuous laugh, A printer’s devil setting up for a cri- 
tic ! He may be a capital judge of pica and brevier, 
perhaps — but let not the compositor go beyond his 
stick.” 

“ Is this the man,” said Forester, whom I have 
heard so eloquent in the praise of candour and liberality ? 
Is this the man who talks of universal toleration and 
freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any 
one should differ from him in criticising a sentence 1 Is 
this the man who would have equality among all his 
fellow-creatures, and who calls a compositor a printer’s 
devil? Is this the man who cants about the pre-eminence 
of mind, and the perfections of intellect; and yet now 
takes advantage of his rank, of his supporters, of the 
cry of his partisans, to bear down the voice of reason? 
— ^ Let not the compositor go beyond his composing- 
stick!’ — And why not? why should not he be a judge 
of writing ?” At this reflection Forester eagerly took 
up the manuscript which had been flung at his feet. 
All his indignant feelings instantly changed into delight- 
ful exultation — he saw the hand — he read the name of 
Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was 
Essay on the best Method of reforming Abuses ” This 
was the subject proposed by the society; and Henry 
had written upon the question with so much modera- 
tion, and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown 
himself the friend of rational liberty, that all the mena- 
bers of the society who were not borne away by their 
prejudices were unanimous in their preference of this 
performance. 

Random’s declamation only inflamed the minds of his 
own partisans. Good judges of writing exclaimed as 
they read it. This is all very fine ; but what would this 


80 


MORAL TALES. 


man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to 
support.’^ 

Forester read Henry Campbell’s essay with all the 
avidity of friendship ; he read it again and again — his 
generous soul was incapable of envy ; and while he ad- 
mired, he was convinced by the force of reason. 

His master desired that he would set about the essay 
early in the morning; but his eagerness for his friend 
Henry’s fame was such that he sat up above half the 
night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the next 
day at the business ; and as ali hands were employed on 
the essay, it was finished that evening. 

Forester rubbed his hands with delight when he had 
set the name of Henry Campbell in the title page — but 
an instant afterward he sighed bitterly. 

I am only a printer,” said he to himself. These just 
arguments, these noble ideas, will instruct and charm 
hundreds of my I'ellow-creatures : no one will ever ask^ 
‘ Who set the types V ” 

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of 
Tom Random and two of his partisans : he was ex 
tremely displeased to find that the printers had not been 
going on with his pamphlet ; his personal disappoint- 
ments seemed to increase the acrimony of his zeal for 
the public good ; he declaimed upon politics — upon the 
necessity for the immediate publication of his sentiments, 
for the salvation of the state. His action was suited to 
his words : violent and blind to consequences, with one 
sudden kick, designed to express his contempt for the 
opposite party, this political Alnaschar unfortunately 
overturned the form which contained the types for the 
newspaper of the next day, which was just going to the 
press — a newspaper in which he had written splendid 
paragraphs. 

Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the 
account which Franklin, in his history of his own life, 
gives of the patience with which he once bore a similar 
accident. The printers, with secret imprecations against 
oratory, or at least against those orators who think that 


FORESTER. F] 

action is every thing, set to work again to repair the 
mischief. 

Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated him- 
self upon having finished his hard day’s work; when a 
man from the shop came to inquire whether three hun- 
dred cards, which had been ordered the week before to 
be printed off, were finished. The man to whom the 
order was given had forgotten it, and he was going 
home : he decidedly answered, “ No ; the cards can’t 
be done till to-morrow : we have left work for this night, 
tliank God.” 

‘‘ The gentleman says he must have them,” expos- 
tulated the messenger. 

He must not, he cannot have them. I would not 
print a card for his majesty at this time of night,” re- 
plied the sullen workman, throwing his hat upon his 
head, in token of departure. 

‘‘ What are these cards ?” said Forester. 

Only a dancing-master’s cards for his ball,” said 
the printer’s journeyman. “I’ll not work beyond my 
time for any dancing-master that wears a head.” 

The messenger then said that he was desired to ask 
for the manuscript card. 

This card was hunted for all over the room ; and at 
last Forester found it under a heap of refuse papers ; his 
eye was caught with the name of his old friend Mon- 
sieur Pasgrave, the dancing-master whom he had for- 
merly frightened by the skeleton with the fiery eyes. 

“ I will print the cards for him myself ; I am not at 
all tired,” cried Forester, who was determined to make 
some little amends for the injury which he had formerly 
done to the poor dancing-master. He resolved to print 
the cards for nothing, and he staid up very late to finish 
them. His companions all left him, for they were in 
a great hurry to see, what in Edinburgh is a rare sight, 
the town illuminated. 

These illuminations were upon account of some 
great naval victory. 

Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave’s cards, did 


82 


MORAL TALES. 


what no other workman would have done, he finished 
for him, on this night of public joy, his three hundred 
cards. Every now and then, as he was quietly at work, 
he heard the loud huzzas in the street : his waning 
candle sunk in the socket as he had just packed up his 
work. 

By the direction at the bottom of the cards he learned 
where M. Pasgrave lodged, and as he was going out to 
look at the illuminations, he resolved to leave them 
himself at the dancing-master’s house. 


THE ILLUMINATIONS. 

The illuminations were really beautiful. He went 
up to the castle, whence he saw a great part of the Old 
Town and all Prince’s-street lighted up in the most 
splendid manner. He crossed the Earth-mound into 
Prince’s street. Walking down Prince’s-street he saw 
a crowd of people gathered before the large illuminated 
window of a confectioner’s shop. As he approached 
nearer he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random, 
who was haranguing the mob. The device and motto 
which the confectioner displayed in his window dis- 
pleased this gentleman ; whoj beside his public-spirited 
abhorrence of all men of a party opposite to his own, 
had likewise private causes of dislike to this confectioner, 
who had refused him his daughter in marriage. 

It was part of Random’s new system of political jus- 
tice to revenge his own quarrels. 

The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, 
made the instruments of private malice, when they 
think they are acting in a public cause, readily joined 
in Tom Random’s cry of ‘‘-Down with the motto! 
Down with the motto!” 

Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing-dogs, 
had learned a little prudence, and who had just printed 


FORESTER. 


83 


Henry Campbell’s Essay on the best means of reform- 
ing abuses, did not mix with the rabble, but joined in 
the entreaties of some peaceable passengers who prayed 
that the poor man’s windows might be spared. The 
windows were, notwithstanding, demolished with a 
terrible crash, and the crowd then, alarmed at the mis- 
chief they had done, began to disperse. The constables 
who had been sent for appeared. Tom Random was 
taken into custody. Forester was pursuing his way to 
the dancing-master’s, when one of the officers of jus- 
tice exclaimed, ‘‘ Stop ! — stop him! — he’s one of ’em: 
he’s a great friend of Mr. Random : I’ve seen him often 
parading arm-in-arm in High-street with him.” 

This, alas I was too true : the constables seized For- 
ester, and put him, with Tom Random and the ring- 
leaders of the riot, into a place of confinement for the 
night. 

Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of 
his former friend and present enemy, had, during this 
long night, leisure for much wholesome reflection upon 
the danger of forming imprudent intimacies. He re- 
solved never to walk again in High-street arm-in-arm 
with such a man as Tom Random. 

The constables were rather hasty in the conclusions 
they drew from this presumptive evidence. 

Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was 
not a little astonished at Tom Random’s consoling him- 
self with drinking instead of philosophy. The sight of 
this enthusiast, when he had completely intoxicated 
himself, was a disgusting but useful spectacle to our in- 
dignant hero. Forester was shocked at the union of 
gross vice and rigid pretentions to virtue > he could 
scarcely believe that the reeling, stammering idiot whom 
he now beheld, was the same being from whose lips he 
had heard declamations upon the omnipotence of intel- 
lect — from whose pen he had seen projects for the go- 
vernment of empires. 

The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illumi- 
nations, had regretted that his cards could not be printed. 


84 


MORAL TALES. 


went early in the morning to inquire about them at the 
printer’s. 

The printer had learned that one of his boys was 
taken up among the rioters ; he was sorry to find that 
Forester had got himself into such a scrape^ but he 
was a very cautious snug man, and he did not choose 
to interfere ; he left him quietly to be dealt with accord- 
ing to law. 

The dancing-master, however, was interested in find- 
ing him out, because he was informed that Forester 
had sat up almost all night to print his cards, and that 
he had them now in his pocket. 

M. Pdsgrave, at length gained admittance to him in 
his confinement: the officers of justice were taking him 

and Random before Mr. W , a magistrate, with 

whom information had been lodged by the confectioner 
who had suffered in his windows. 

Pasgrave, when he beheld Forester, was surprised to 
such a degree that he could scarcely finish his bow, or 
express his astonishment, either in French or English. 
“Eh, monsieur! — mon Dieu ! — bon Dieu I T beg ten 
million pardons — I am come to search for a printer who 
has my cards in his pocket.” 

Here are your cards,” said Forester: let me speak- 
a few words to you.” He took M. Pasgrave aside — “I 
perceive,” said he, “ that you have discovered who I 
am. Though in the service of a printer, I have still as 
much the feelings and principles of a gentleman as I 
had when you saw me in Dr. Campbell’s house. I have 
particular reasons for being anxious to remain undis- 
covered by Dr. Campbell, or any of his family ; you 
may depend upon it that my reasons are not dishonour- 
able. 1 request that you will not, upon any account, 
betray me to that family. I am going before a magis- 
trate, and am accused of being concerned in a riot which 
I did every thing in my power to prevent.” 

“Ah! monsieur,” interrupted the dancing-master, 
“ but you see de grand inconvenience of concealing 
your rank and name. You, who are comme il faut. 


FORESTER. 


85 


are confounded with the mob : permit me at least to 

follow you to Mr. W , the magistrate : I have die 

honneur to leach les demoiselles his daughters to dance; 
dey are to be at my ball — dey take one half-dozen 
tickets. I must call dere wid my cards; and I shall, if 
you will give me leave, accompany you now, and 
mention dat I know you to be un homme comme il 
faut, above being guilty of an unbecoming action. I 
flatter myself I have some interest wid de ladies of de 
family, and dat dey will do me de favour to speak to 
monsieur leur cher pere sur votre compte.’’ 

Forester thanked the good-natured dancing-master, 
but he proudly said that he should trust to his own in- 
nocence for defence. 



M. PasgraFe, who had seen something more of the 
world than our hero, and who was interested for him. 
Decause he had once made him a present of an excellent 
violin, and because he had sat up half the night to print 
the ball cards, resolved not to leave him entirely to his 
innocence for a defence: he followed Forester to Mr. 

W ’s. The magistrate was a slow, pompous man, 

by no means a good physiognomist, much less a good 
judge of character. He was proud of his authority, 
and glad to display the small portion of legal knowledge 
which he possessed. As soon as he was informed that 
some young men were brought before him who had 
been engaged the preceding night in a riot, he put on all 
his magisterial terrors, and assured the confectioner, 
who had a private audience of him, that he should liave 
justice ; and that the person or persons concerned in 
breaking his window or windows should be punished 
with the utmost severity that the law would allow. 
Contrary to the humane spirit of the British law, which 
supposes every man to be innocent till it is proved that 
he is guilty, this harsh magistrate presumed that every 
man who was brought before him was guilty till he was 
proved to be innocent. Forester’s appearance was not 
m his favour: he had been up all night; his hair was 
dishevelled ; his linen was neither fine nor white ; his 
shoes were thick-soled and dirty; his coal was that in 


K 


86 . 


MORAL TALES. 


which he had been at work at the printer's the preceding 
day; it was in several places daubed with printer’s ink; 
and his unwashed hands bespoke his trade. Of all these 
circumstances the slow circumspect eye of the magis- 
trate took cognizance one by one. Forester observed 
the effect which this survey produced upon his judge; 
and he felt that appearances were against him, and that 
appearances are sometimes of consequence. After 
having estimated his poverty by these external symp- 
toms, the magistrate looked, for the first time, in his 
face, and pronounced that he had one of the worst 
countenances he ever beheld. This judgment once pro- 
nounced, he proceeded to justify, by wresting to the 
prisoner’s disadvantage every circumstance that ap- 
peared. Forester’s having been frequently seen in 
Tom Random’s company was certainly against him; 
the confectioner perpetually repeated that they were 
constant companions ; that they were intimate friends; 
that they were continually walldng together every Sun- 
day, and that they often had come arm-in-arm into his 
shop, talking politics ; that he believed Forester to be of 
the same way of thinking with Mr. Random ; and that 
he saw him close behind him at the moment the stones 
W'ere thrown that broke the windows. It appeared 
that Mr. Random was at that time active in encouraging 
the mob. To oppose the angry confectioner’s conjec- 
tural evidence, the lad who threw the stone, and who 
was now produced, declared that Forester held back his 
arm, and said, My good lad, don’t break this man’s 
windows; go home quietly; here’s a shilling for you.” 
The person who gave this honest testimony, in whom 
there was a strange mixture of the love of mischief and 
the spirit of generosity, was the very lad who fought 
with Forester, and beat him, about the dancing-dogs. 
He whispered to Forester, “Do you remember me? 
I hope you don’t bear malice.” The magistrate, who 
heard this whisper, immediately construed it to the 
prisoner’s disadvantage. — “Then, sir,” said he, ad- 
dressing himself to our hero, “ this gentleman, I under- 
stand, claims acquaintance with you; his acquaintance 


FORESTER. 


87 


really does you honour, and speaks strongly in favour 
of your character. If I mistake not, this is the lad 
whom I sent to the Tolbooth, some little time ago, for a 
misdemeanour; and he is not, I apprehend, a stranger 
to the stocks.*^ 

Forester commanded his temper as well as he was 
able, and observed, that whatever might be the character 
of the young man who had spoken in his favour, his 
evidence would, perhaps, be thought to deserve some 
credit when the circumstances of his acquaintance with 
the witness were known. He then related the adven- 
ture of the dancing-dogs, and remarked that the testi- 
mony of an enemy came with double force in his favour. 
The language and manner in which Forester spoke sur- 
prised all who were present; but the history of the 
dancing-dogs appeared so ludicrous and so improbable 
that the magistrate decidedly pronounced it to be a 
fabrication, a story invented to conceal the palpable 
collusion of the witnesses.’’ Yet, though he one mo- 
ment declared that he did not believe the story, he the 
next inferred from it.that Forester was disposed to riot 
and sedition, since he was ready to fight with a vaga- 
bond in the streets for the sake of a parcej of dancing- 
dogs. 

M. Pasgrave, in the mean time, had, with great good- 
nature, been representing Forester in the best light he 
possibly could to the young ladies, the magistrate’s 
daughters. One of them sent to beg to speak to their 
father. M. Pasgrave judiciously dwelt upon his as- 
surances of Forester’s being a gentleman : he told Mr. 

W ^at he had met him in one of the best families 

in Edinburgh; that he knew he had some private reasons 
for concealing that he was a gentleman : perhaps the 
young gentleman was reduced to temporary distress,” 
he said ; but whatever might be these reasons, M. Pas- 
grave vouched for his having very respectable friends 
and connexions. The magistrate wished to know the 
family in which M. Pasgrave had' met Forester : but he 
was, according to his promise, impenetrable on this sub- 
ject. His representations had, however, the desired 


88 


MORAL TALES. 


effect upon Mr. W : when he returned to the ex- 

amination of our hero, his opinion of his countenance 
somewhat varied ; he despatched his other business ; 
bailed Tom Random on high sureties ; and when Fores- 
ter was the only person that remained, he turned to him 
with great solemnity; bade him sit down; informed 
him that he knew him to be a gentleman ; that he was 
greatly concerned that a person like him, who had re- 
spectable friends and connexions, should involve him- 
self in such a disagreeable affair; that it was a matter 
of grief and surprise to him to see a young gentleman 
in such apparel; that he earnestly recommended to him 
to accommodate matters with his friends ; and, above 
all things, to avoid the company of seditious persons. 
Much good advice, but in a dictatorial tone, and in cold, 
pompous language, he bestowed upon the prisoner; 
and at length dismissed him. “ How different,” said 
Forester to himself, is this man’s method of giving 
advice from Dr. Campbell’s!” 

This lesson strongly impressed, however, upon our 
hero’s mind the belief that external appearance, dress, 
manners, and the company we keep, are the usual cir- 
cumstances by which the world judge of character and 

conduct. When he was dismissed from Mr. W ’s 

august presence, the first thing he did was to inquire for 
Pasgrave : he was giving the magistrate’s daughters a 
lesson, and could not be interrupted; but Forester left a 
note for him, requesting to see him at ten o’clock the 
next day, at Mr. , the bookseller’s. New mortifica- 

tions awaited our hero : on his return to his master’s, he 
was very coldly received : Mr. let him know in un- 

qualified terms, that he did not like to employ any one 
in his work who got into quarrels at night in the public 
streets. Forester’s former favour with his master, his 
industry and talents, were not considered without envy 
by the rest of the journeymen printers ; and they took 
advantage of his absence to misrepresent him to the 
bookseller : however, when Forester came to relate his 
own story, his master was convinced that he was not to 
blame ; that he had worked extremely hard the preceding 


FORESTER. • 


89 


day ; and that, far from having been concerned in a riot, 
he had done every thing in his power to prevent mis- 
chief. He desired -to see the essay which was printed 
with so much expedition : it was in the hands of the 
corrector of the press. The sheets were sent for, and 
the bookseller was in admiration at the extraordinary 
correctness with which it was printed; the corrector of 
the press scarcely had occasion to alter a word, a letter, 
or a stop. There was a quotation in the manuscript 
from Juvenal. Henry Campbell had, by mistake, omit- 
ted to name the satire and line, and the author from 
which it was taken, though he' had left a blank in which 
they were to be inserted. The corrector of- the press, 
though a literary gentleman, was at a stand. Forester 
immediately knew where to look for the passage in the 
original author : he found it, and inserted the b^ook and 
line in their proper place. His master did not suffer 
this to pass unobserved ; he hinted to him that it was a 
pity a young man of his abilities and knowledge should 
waste his time in the mere technical drudgery of print- 
ing. I should be glad now,” continued the bookseller, 
to employ you as a corrector of the press, and to ad- 
vance you according to your merits, in the world ; 
glancing his eye at Forester’s dress, you must give 
me leave to say, that spme attention to outward appear- 
ance is necessary in our business. Gentlemen call here/ 
as you well know, continually, and I like to have the 
people about me make a creditable appearance. You 
have earned money since you have been with me — sure- 
ly you can afford yourself a decent suit of clothes and 
a cleaner shirt. I beg your pardon for speaking so free- 
ly; but I really have a regard for you, and wish to see 
you get forward in JIb.” 


90 


MORAL TALES. 


FORESTER A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS; 

Forester had not, since he left Dr. Campbell’s, been 
often spoken to in a tone of friendship. The bookseller’s 
well-meant frank remonstrance made its just impression ; 
and he resolved to make the necessary additions to his 
wardrobe ; nay, he even went to a hairdresser to have 
his hair cut and brought into decent order. His com- 
panions, the printers, had not been sparing in their re- 
marks upon the meanness of his former apparel, and 
Forester pleased himself with anticipating the respect 
they would feel for him when he should appear in better 
clothes. ‘‘Can such trifles,” said he to himself, “ make 
such a change in the opinion of my fellow creatures? — 
And why should I fight with the world for trifles ? My 
real merit is neither increased nor diminished by the 
dress I may happen to wear; but I see that, unless I 
waste all my life in combating the prejudices of super- 
ficial observers, I should avoid all those peculiarities in 
my external appearance which prevent whatever good 
qualities I have from obtaining their just respect.” He 
was surprised at the blindness of his companions, who 
could not discover his merit through the roughness of 
his manners aAd the disadvantages of his dress ; but he 
determined to shine out upon them in the superior dress 
and character of a corrector of the press. He went to 
a tailor’s, and bespoke a suit of clothes. He bought 
new linen; and our readers will perhaps hear with sur- 
prise, that he actually began to consider very seriously 
whether he should not take a few lessons in dancing. 
He had learned to dance formerly, and was not naturally 
either inactive or awkward : but his contempt for the 
art prevented him, for some years, from practising it; 
and he had nearly forgotten his wonted agility. Henry 
Campbell once, when Forester was declaiming against 
dancing, told him, that if he had learned to dance, and 
excelled in the art, his contempt for the trifling accom- 
plishment would have more effect upon the minds of 


FORESTER. 


91 


Others, because it could not be mistaken for envy. This 
remark made a deep impression upon our hero, espe- 
cially as he observed that his friend Henry was not in the 
least vain of his personal graces, and had cultivated his 
understanding, though he could dance a Scotch reel. 
Scotch reels were associated in Forester’s imagination 
with Flora Campbell; and in balancing the arguments 
for and against learning to dance, the recollection of 
Archibald Mackenzie’s triumphant look, when he led 
her away as his partner at the famous ball, had more 
influence perhaps upon Forester’s mind than his pride 
and philosophy apprehended. He began to have some 
confused design of returning, at some distant period, to 
his friends ; and he had hopes that he should appear in 
a more amiable light to Flora, after he had perfected 
himself in an accomplishment which he fancied she 
admired prodigiously. His esteem for that lady was 
rather diminished by this belief ; but still a sufficient 
quantity remained to excite in him a strong ambiiion to 
please. The agony he felt the night he left the ball- 
room, was such, that he could not even now recollect 
the circumstances without confusion and anguish of 
mind. His hands were now such as could appear with- 
. out gloves ; and he resolved to commence the education 
of his feet. 

M. Pasgrave called upon him in consequence of the 
message which he left at the magistrate’s: his original 
design in sending for the dancing-master was to offer 
him some acknowledgment for his obliging conduct. 
“M. Pasgrave,” said he, you have behaved towards 
me like a man of honour; you have kept my secret; I 
am convinced that you will continue to keep it invio- 
late.” As he spoke, he produced a ten-guinea bank- 
note; for at length he had prevailed upon himself to 
have recourse to his pocket-book, which, till this day, 
had remained unopened. Pasgrave stared at the sight 
of the note, and withdrew his hand at first, when it was 
offered; but he yielded at length, when Forester assured 
him that he was not in any distress, and that he could 
perfectly w.ell afibrd to indulge his feelings of gratitude 


I 


92 MORAL TALES. 

Nay/’ continued Forester, who, if he had not always 
practised the maxims of politeness, notwithstanding pos- 
sessed that generosity of mind and good sense on which 
real politeness must depend, you shall not be under 
any obligation to me, M. Pasgrave: I am just going to 
ask a favour from you. You must teach me to dance.” 

“ Wid de utmost pleasure,” exclaimed the delighted 
dancing-master ; and the hours of his attendance were 
soon settled. Whatever Forester attempted he pursued 
tvith energy. M. Pasgrave, after giving him a few les- 
sons, prophesied that he would do him infinite credit; and 
Forester felt a secret pride in the idea that he should 
surprise his friends some time or other with his new 
accomplishment. 

He continued in the bookseller’s service, correcting 
the press for him, much to his satisfaction ; and the 
change in his personal appearance pleased his master, 
as it showed attention to his advice. Our hero, from 
time to time, exercised his talents in writing; and, as 
he inserted his compositions under a fictitious signature 
in his master’s newspaper, he had an opportunity of 
hearing the most unprejudiced opinions of a variety of 
critics, who often came to read the papers at their house. 
He stated, in short essays, some of those arguments 
concerning the advantages and disadvantages of polite- 
ness, luxury, the love of society, misanthropy, &,c., 
which had formerly passed between him and Henry 
Campbell ; and he listened to the remarks that were 
made upon each side of the questions. How it happen- 
ed we know not ; but after he had taken lessons for about 
six ^yeeks, from M. Pasgrave, he became extremely 
solicitous to have a solution of all his stoical doubts, 
and to furnish himself with the best possible ^guments 
in favour of civilized society. He could nor bear the 
idea that he yielded his opinions to any thing less than 
strict demonstration : he drew up a list of queries, which 
concluded with the following question : — What should 
be the distinguishing characteristics of the higher classes 
of people in society ?” — This query was answered in one 
of the public papers a few days after it had appeared in 


FORESTER. 


93 


Mr. ’s paper, and the^answer was signed H. C., a 

Friend to Society. Even without these initials Forester 
would easily have discovered it to be Henry Campbell’s 
writing; and several strokes seemed to be so particu- 
larly addressed to him, that he could not avoid thinking 
Henry had^ discovered the querist. The impression 
which arguments make upon the mind varies with time 
and change of situation. Those arguments in favour of 
subordination in society, in favour of agreeable man- 
ners, and attention to the feelings of others in the small 
as well as in the great concerns of life, which our hero 
had heard with indifference from Dr. Campbell and 
Henry in conversation, struck him, when he saw them 
in a printed essay, with all the force of conviction ; and 
he wondered how it had happened that he never before 
perceived them to be conclusive. 

He put the newspaper which contained this essay in 
his pocket; and after he had finished his day’s work, 
and had taken his evening lesson from M. Pasgrave, 
he went out, with an intention of going to a favourite 
spot upon Arthur’s Seat, to read the essay again at his 
leisure. 

But he was stopped at the turn from the North Bridge 
into High-street by a scavenger’s cart. The scavenger, 
with his broom which had just swept the High-street, 
was clearing away a heap of mud. Two gentlemen on 
horseback, who were riding like postillions, came up 
during this operation — Sir Philip Gosling and Archibald 
Mackenzie. Forester had his back towards them, and 
he never looked round, because he was loo intent upon 
his own thoughts. Archibald was mounted upon Saw- 
ney, the horse which he had so fairly won from his 
friend Sir Philip. The half-guinea which had been 
promised ^ the hostler had not yet been paid ; and the 
hostler, determined to revenge himself upon Archibald, 
invented an ingenious method of gratifying his resent- 
ment. He taught Sawney to rear and plunge whenever 
his legs were touched by the broom with w’hich the sta- 
bles were swept. When Sawney was perfectly well 
trained to this trick, the cunning hostler communicated 


94 


MORAL TALES. 


his design, and related his cause of complaint against 
Archibald to a scavenger who was well-known at the 
livery-stables. The scavenger entered into his friend 
the hostler’s feelings, and promised to use his broom in 
his cause whenever a convenient and public opportunity 
should offer. The hour of retribution was now arrived : 
the scavenger saw his young gentleman in full glory, 
mounted upon Sawney ; he kept his eye upon him while, 
in company with the baronet, he came over the North 
Bridge : there was a stop, from the meeting of carts and 
carriages. The instant Archibald came within reach 
of the broom, the scavenger slightly touched Sawney’s 
leg; Sawney plunged and reared — and reared and plung- 
ed. The scavenger stood grinning at the sight. For- 
ester attempted to seize the horse’s -bridle ; but Saw- 
ney, who seemed determined upon the point, succeeded. 
When Forester snatched at his bridle, he reared, then 
plunged ; and Archibald Mackenzie was fairly lodged in 
the scavenger’s cart. While the well-dressed laird 
floundered in the mud. Forester gave the horse to the 
servant, who had now ridden up ; and, satisfied that 
Mackenzie had received no material injury, inquired 
no further. He turned to assist a poor washerwoman, 
who was lifting a large basket of clean linen into her 
house, to get it out of the way of the cart. As soon as 
he had helped her to lift the basket into her passage, 
he was retiring, when he heard a voice at the back-door, 
which was at the other end of the passage. It was the 
voice of a child ; and he listened, for he thought he had 
heard it before . — ‘‘ The door is locked,” said the washer- 
woman. [ know who it is that is knocking ; it is only 
a little girl who is coming for a cap which I have there 
in the basket.” The door was unlocked, and Forester 
saw the little girl to whom the fine geranium belonged. 
What a number of ideas she recalled to his mind! She 
looked at him, and hesitated, courtesied, then turned 
away, as if she was afraid she was mistaken, and asked 
the washerwoman if she had plaited her grandmother’s 
cap. . The woman searched in her basket, and produced 
tlie cap nicely plaited. The little girl, in the mean time, 





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FORESTER. 


95 


considered Forester with anxious attention. “ I believe/’ 
said she, timidly, “ you are, or you are very like, the 
gentleman who was so good as to ” — ‘‘Yes,” in- 

terrupted Forester, “ I know what you mean. I am the 
man who went with you to try to obtain justice from 
your tyrannical school-mistress : I did not do you any 
good. Have you seen — have you heard any thing of 

Such a variety of recollections pressed upon 

Forester’s heart that he could not pronounce the name 
of Henry Campbell ; and he changed his question. “ Is 
your old grandmother recovered?” — “ She is quite well, 
thank you. Sir; and she is grown young again since 
you saw her : perhaps you don’t know how good Mr. 
Henry and the young lady have been to us. We don’t 
live now in that little, close, dark room at the watch- 
maker’s. We are as happy. Sir, as the day is long.” — 

“ But what of Henry ? — what of ?” — “ Oh sir ! but 

if you are not very busy, or in a great hurry — it is but 
a little way off — if you could come and look at our new 
house — I don’t mean our house, for it is not ours; but 
we take care of it, and we have two little rooms to our- 
selves ; and Mr. Henry and Miss Flora very often come 
to see us. I wish you could come to see how nice our 
rooms are ! ‘ The house is not far off, only at the back 
of the meadows.” — “ Go, show me the way — I’ll follow 
you,” said Forester, after he had satisfied himself that 
there was no danger of his meeting any of Dr. Camp- 
bell’s family. 


' THE MEADOWS. 

Our hero accompanied the little girl with eager, bene- 
volent curiosity. “There,” said she, when they came 
to the meadows, “ do you see that white house with the 
paling before it “ But that cannot be your house !” 
— “ No, no, sir : Dr. Campbell and several gentlemen 


96 


MORAL TALES. 


have the large room, and they come there twice a week 
to teach something to a great many children. Grand- 
mother can explain all that better to you, sir, than I can; 
but all I know is, that it is our business to keep the 
room aired and swept, and to take care of the glass 
things which you’ll see ; and you shall see how clean 
it is : it was I swept it this morning.” 

They had now reached the gate, which was in the 
paling before the house. The old woman came to the 
door, clean, neat, and cheerful; she recollected to have 
seen Forester in company with Henry Campbell at the 
watchmaker’s; and this was sufficient to make him a 
welcome guest. God bless the family, and all that be- 
longs to them, for ever and ever!” said the woman, 
^^This way, sir.” — “ O, don’t look into our little rooms 
yet; look at the great room first, if you please, sir,” said 
the child. 

There was a large table in the middle of this long 
room, and several glass retorts, and other chemical ves- 
sels, were ranged upon shelves; Avooden benches were 
placed on each side of the table. The grandmother, to 
whom the little girl had referred for a clear explanation, 
could not, however, tell Forester very exactly the uses 
of the retorts ; but she informed him that' many of the 
manufacturers in Edinburgh sent their sons hither twice 
a week ; and Dr. Campbell, and Mr. Henry Campbell, 
and some other gentlemen, came by turns to instruct 
them. Forester recollected now that he once heard 
Henry talking to his father about a scheme for teaching 
the children of the manufacturers of Edinburgh some 
knowledge of chemistry, such as they might afterward 
employ advantageously to the arts and every-day busi- 
ness of life. 

“ I have formed projects, but what good have I ever 
actually done to my fellow-creatures?” said Forester to 
himself. With melancholy steps he walked to examine 
every thing in the room. ‘‘Dr. Campbell sits in this 
arm-chair, does not he ? And where does Henry sit?” 
The old woman placed the chairs for him as they usually 
were placed. Upon one of the shelves there was a slate. 


FORESTER. 


97 


which, as it had been written upon, the little girl had 
put by very carefully ; there were some calculations 
upon the weight of different gases, and the figures Fores- 
ter knew to be Henry’s : he looked at every thing that 
was Henry’s with pleasure. Because I used to°be so 
rough in my manner to him,” said Forester to himself, 
“ I dare say that he thinks I have no feeling, and I sup- 
pose he has forgotten me by this time ; I deserve, indeed, 
to be forgotten by every body ! How could I leave such 
friends!” On the other side of the slate poor Forester 
saw his own name written several times over, in his 
friend’s hand- writing, and he read two lines of his own 
poetry, which he remembered to have repeated to Henry 
the day that they walked to Arthur’s Seat. Forester felt 
much pleasure from this little proof of his friend’s affec- 
tion. Now won’t you look at our nice rooms?” said 
the child, who had waited with some patience till he 
had done pondering upon the slate. 

The little rooms were well arranged, and their neat- 
ness was not now as much lost upon our hero as it 
would have been some time before. The old woman 
and her grand-daughter, with all the pride of gratitude, 
exhibited to him several little presents of furniture 
which they had received from Dr. Campbell’s family. 

Mr. Henry gave me this I Miss Flora gave me that !” 
was frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door 
of her own room. On a clean white deal bracket, which 

Mr. Henry had put up with his own hands,’^ stood the 
well-known geranium in its painted flower-pot. Fores- 
ter saw nothing else in the room, and it was in vain 
that both the old woman and her grand-daughter talked 
to him at once ; he heard not a word that was said to 
him. The flowers were all gone, and the brown calyces 
of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of 
time which had elapsed since he had first seen them. I 
am sorry there are no flowers to offer you,” said the 
little girl, observing Forester’s melancholy look ; “ but 
I thought you did not like geraniums; for I remember 
when I gave you a fine flower in the watchmaker’s shop 
you pulled it to pieces, and threw it on the ground.”— 
1 


98 


MORAL TALES. 


“I should not do so now,” said Forester. The black, 
marks on the painted flower-pot had been entirely 
efiaced : he turned away, endeavoured to conceal his 
emotion, and took leave of the place as soon as the 
grateful inhabitants would suflfer him to depart. The 
reflection that he had wasted his time, that he had never 
done any good to any human being, that he had lost op- 
portunities of making both himself and others happy, 
pressed upon his mind ; but his stoical pride still resisted 
the thought of returning to Dr. CampbelPs. It will be 
imagined that I yield my opinions from meanness of 
spirit,” said he to himself. Dr. Campbell certainly 
has no further regard or esteem for me; neither he nor 
Henry have troubled themselves about my fate : they 
are doing good to more deserving objects ; they are in- 
tent upon literary pursuits, and have not time to bestow 
a thought upon me. And Flora, I suppose, is as gay 
as she is good. I alone am unhappy, — a wanderer, — 
an outcast, — a useless being.” 

Forester, while he was looking at the geranium, or 
soon afterward, missed his handkerchief; the old wo- 
man and her grand-daughter searched for it all over the 
house, but in vain ; he then thought he must have left it 
at the washerwoman’s, where he met the little girl ; he 
called to inquire for it, upon his return to Edinburgh. 
When he returned to this woman’s house for his hand- 
kerchief, he found her sitting upon a low stool, in her 
laundry, weeping bitterly ; her children stood round her. 
Forester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she 
told him that a few minutes after he left her, the young 
gentleman who had been thrown from his horse into the 
scavenger’s cart was brought into her house, while his 
servant went home for another suit of clothes for him. 

I did not at first guess that I had ever seen the young 
gentleman before,” continued she; “ but when the mud 
was cleared from his face I knew him to be Mr. Archi- 
bald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his 
face then, or at any time. He was in a very bad hu- 
mour after his tumble ; and he began again to threaten 
me about a ten-guinea bank-note which he and his ser- 


I 


FORESTER. 99 

vant declare they sent in his waistcoat pocket to be 
washed : Pm sure I never saw it. Mr. Henry Camp- 
bell quieted him about it for awhile; but just now he 
began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a 
lawyer, and that he will make me pay the whole note; 
and he swore at me as if 1 had been the worst creature 
in the world ; and, God knows, I work hard for my 
children, and never wronged any one in my days 
Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections 
as soon as he could assist any one who was in distress, 
bade the poor woman dry her tears, and assured her that 
she had nothing to fear ; for he would instantly go to 
Dr. Campbell, and get him to speak to Mackenzie. “ If 
it is necessary,’’ said he, I’ll pay the money myself.” 
She clasped her hands joyfully as he spoke, and all her 
children joined in an exclamation of delight. I’ll go to 
Dr. Campbell’s this instant,” said our hero, whose pride 
now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this injured 
woman : he totally forgot himself, and thought only of 
her : I’ll go to Dr. Campbell’s, and I will speak to Mr. 
Mackenzie immediately.” 


A SUMMONS. 

While Forester was \valking through the streets, with 
that energy which the hope of serving his fellow-crea- 
tures always excited in his generous mind, he even for- 
got a scheme which he had, in spite of his stoical pride 
and his dread of being thought to give up his opinions 
from meanness, revolved in his imagination. He had 
formed the design of returning to his friends an altered 
being in his external appearance: he had ordered a 
fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. He 
had laid aside the dress and manners of a gentleman, 
from the opinion that they were degrading to the cha- 
racter of a man : as soon as this prejudice had been con- 


100 


MORAL TALES. 


quered he began to think he might resume them. Many 
were the pleasing anticipations in which he indulged 
nimself : the looks of each of his friends, the generous 
approving eye of Henry, the benevolent countenance of 
Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all painted 
by his fancy ; and he invented every circumstance that 
was likely to happen — every word that would probably 
be said by each individual. We are sure that our readers 
will give our enthusiastic hero credit for his forgetting 
these pleasing reveries, — for his forgetting himself, nay, 
even Flora Campbell, — when humanity and justice 
called upon him for exertion. 

When he found himself in George’s-square, within 
sight of Dr. Campbell’s house, his heart beat violently, 
and he suddenly stopped to recollect himself. He had 
scarcely stood a few instants, when a hard, stout-look- 
ing man came up to him, and asked him if his name 
were Forester: he started, and answered, Yes, sir; 
what is your business with me?” The stranger replied 
by producing a paper, and desiring him to read it. The 
paper, which was half-printed, half-written, began with 
these words : — “ You are hereby required to appear be- 
fore me — ” 

What is all this?” exclaimed our hero. — It is a sum- 
mons,” replied the stranger : I am a constable, and 

you will please to come with me before Mr. W . 

This is not the first time you have been before him, I am 
told.” To this last insolent taunt Forester made no re- 
ply ; but in a firm tone said that he was conscious of no 
crime, but that he was ready to follow the constable, and 

to appear before Mr. W , or any other magistrate 

who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though he sum- 
moned all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he 
was much astonished by this proceeding ; he could not 
help reflecting that an individual in society who has 
friends, an established character, and a home, is in a 
more desirable situation than an unconnected being who 
has no one to answer for his conduct, — no one to re- 
joice in his success, or to sympathize in his misfortunes. 
“Ah, Dr. Campbell! happy father! in the midst of 


FORESTER. 


101 


your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent 
ward \ ” said Forester to himself, while his mind revolted 
from seeking his friend’s assistance in this discreditable 
situation. “You do not know how near he is to you! 
you do not know that he was just returning to you! 
you do not see that he is, at this moment, perhaps, on 
the brink of disgrace!” 


THE BANK-NOTES. 

Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell 
had forgotten him; but we shall not yet explain further 
upon this subject, we only throw out this hint that our 
readers may not totally change their good opinion of 
the doctor. We must now beg their attention to the 
continuation of the history of Archibald Mackenzie’s 
bank-note. 

Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the 
colours were changed in one spot on the right-hand 
pocket of her son’s waistcoat. “ My dear Archibald,” 
said she, “ what has happened to your smart waistcoat? 
What is that terrible spot?” — “ Really, ma’am, I don’t 
know,” said Archibald, with his usual soft voice and 
deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed that it 
seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some 
acid. “ Did you wear that waistcoat,” said he, “ the 
night the large bottle of vitriolic acid was broken — the 
night that poor Forester’s cat Avas killed : don’t you re- 
member?” — “ Oh, I did not at first recollect ; I cannot 
possibly remember, indeed, — it is so long ago, — what 
waistcoat I. wore on that particular night.” The ex- 
treme embarrassment in Archibald’s manner, surprised 
Henry. “ I really don’t perceive your drift,’^ continued 
Mackenzie : “what made you ask the question so earn- 
estly?” He was relieved when Henry answered that 
he only wished to know whether it was probable that it 


102 


MORAL TALES. 


was stained with vitriolic acid ; because,’’ said he, I 
think that is the pocket in which you said you left y^ur 
ten-guinea note ; then, perhaps, the note may have been 
stained.” — Perhaps so,” replied Mackenzie, dryly, — 

And if it were, you could identify the note ; you have 
forgotten the number, but if the note has been stained 
with vitriolic acid, yve should certainly be able to know 
it again : the acid would have changed the colour of 
the ink.” Mackenzie eagerly seized this idea; and im- 
mediately, in pursuance of Henry’s advice, went to 
several of the principal bankers in Edinburgh, and re- 
quested that if a note stained in such a manner should 
be presented to them, they would stop payment of it 
till Mackenzie should examine it. Some time elapsed, 
and nothing was heard of the note. Mackenzie gave 
up all hopes of recovering it; and, in proportion as 
these hopes diminished, his old desire of making the 
poor washerwoman answerable for his loss increased. 
We have just heard this woman’s account of his be- 
haviour to her, when he came into her house to be re- 
fitted, after his tumble from Sawney into the scavenger’s 
cart. All his promises to Henry he thought proper to dis- 
regard: promises appeared to him mere matters of con- 
venience ; and the idea of taking iii^' such a young 
man as Henry Campbell was to him an excellent joke. 
He resolved to keep the five guineas quietly which 
Henry lent him ; and, at the same time, to frighten this 
innocent, industrious woman into paying him the value 
of his bank-note. 

Upon Mackenzie’s return to Dr. Campbell’s, after his 
fall from Sawney, the first thing he heard was that his 
note was found ; that it had been stopped at the bank of 
Scotland ; and that one of the clerks of the bank, who 
brought it for his examination, had been some time 
waiting for his return from riding. When the note was 
produced, Henry saw that two or three of the words 
which had been written in ink, the name of the person 
to whom it was payable, and the date of the month and 
year, were so pale as to be scarcely visible; and that 
there was a round hole through one corner of the paper. 


FORESTER, 


103 


This round hole puzzled Henry, but he had no doubt 
that the ink had been thus nearly obliterated by vitriolic 
acid. He poured a few drops, diluted with water, upon 
some printing, and the ink was quickly turned to nearly 
the same pale colour as that in Mackenzie’s note. The 
note was easily traced, as it had not passed through 
many hands — our readers will be sorry to hear it — to 
M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master. Mackenzie and the 
clerk went directly to his house, found him at home, 
and without much preface informed him of their busi- 
ness. The dancing-master trembled from head to foot ; 
and, though innocent, exhibited all the signs of guilt: 
he had not the slightest knowledge of business, and the 
manner and language of the banker’s clerk who ac- 
companied Mackenzie terrified him beyond measure, 
because he did not comprehend one word in ten that he 
said about checks, entries, and day-books ; and he was 
nearly a quarter of an hour before he could recover 
sufficient presence of mind to consider from whom he 
received the note. At length, after going over, in an 
unintelligible manner, all the puzzled accounts of mo- 
neys received and paid which he kept in his head, he 
declared that he clearly recollected to have received the 
ten-guinea note at Macpherson’s, the tailor ; that he went 
a few weeks ago to settle his year’s account with him ; 
and that, in change for a twenty-pound note, he receiv- 
ed that which the banker’s clerk now produced. To 
Mackenzie it was perfectly indifferent who was found 
guilty, so that he could recover his money. Settle it 
as you will among you,” said he, ^‘themone)r must be 
refunded, or I must have^you all before a magistrate di- 
rectly.” Pasgrave, in great perturbation, set out for 
Mr. Macpherson’s, showed him the note, and reminded 
him of the day when he paid his account. “ Tf you 
received the note from us sir,” said the master-tailor, 
very calmly, it must be entered in our books ; for we 
keep regular accounts.” The tailor’s foreman, who 
knew much more of the affair than his master, appeal- 
ed, with assumed security, to the entry in the books. 
By this entry it appeared that M. Pasgrave settled his 


104 


MORAL TALES. 


account the 17th of October ; that he paid the balance 
by a twenty-pound note, and that he received in change 
a ten-guinea note on Sir William Forbes’ bank. “ You 
see, sir,” said the tailor, this cannot possibly be Mr. 
Mackenzie’s ; for his note is on the bank of Scotland. 
Our entry is as full as possible ; and I am ready to pro- 
duce my books, and to abide by them, in any court of 
justice in the world.” M. Pasgrave was totally at a 
loss j he could'only repeat that he remembered to have 
received Mackenzie’s note from one of the tailor’s men, 
who brought it to him from an inner room. The fore- 
man boldly asserted that he brought the change exactly 
as his master gave it to him, and that he knew nothing 
more of the matter. But, in fact, he knew a great deal 
more ; he had found the note in the pocket of Macken- 
zie’s waistcoat, which his servant had left to be mended, 
after he had turn it furtively, as has been already related. 
When his master called him into the inner room, to 
give him the change for Pasgrave, he observed that 
there was a ten-guinea note wrapped up with some 
halfpence ; and he thought that it would be a prudent 
thing to substitute Mackenzie’s note, which he had by 
him, in the place of this. He accordingly gave Pas- 
grave Mackenzie’s, and thrust the note which he had 
received from his master into a corner of his trunk, 
where he usually kept little windfalls that came to him 
by the negligence of customers — toothpick cases, loose 
silver, odd gloves, &.C., all which he knew how to dis- 
pose of. But this bank-note was a higher prize than 
usual, and he was afraid to pass it till all inquiry had 
blown over. He knew his master’s regularity ; and he 
thought that if the note was stopped afterwards at any 
of the banks, it could never be traced farther than to M. 
Pasgrave. He was rejoiced to see that this poor man 
was in such trepidation of mind that he could not, in the 
least, use his understanding; and he saw, with much 
satisfaction, that his master, who was a positive man, 
and proud of the accuracy of his books, was growing 
red in the face in their defence. Mackenzie, in the 
mean time, who had switched his boots with great im 


FORESTER. 


105 


patience during their debate, interfered at last with — 
‘‘ Come, gentlemen, we can’t stand here all day to hear 
you give one another the lie. One of you, it’s plain, 
must shell out your corianders ; but as you can’t settle 
which, we must put you to your oath, I see .” — “ Mr. 

W ’s is not far off, and I’m ready to go before him 

with my books this instant,” said the fiery master tai- 
lor. “ My books were never called in question since I 
was in trade till this instant ; and nobody but a French 
dancing-master, who understands no more of debtor and 
creditor than my goose, would stand out against such 
an entry as this.” 

To Mr. W ’s, the tailor, his foreman, the dancing- 

master, the banker’s clerk, and Mackenzie repaired. 
Pasgrave turned paler than ever dancer turned before ; 
and gave himself, his character, and his wife and chil- 
dren, all up for lost, when he heard he was to be put 

upon his oath. He drew back when Mr. W held 

the book to him, and demanded whether he would swear 
to the person from whom he received the note. He said 
he could not swear; but to the best of his belief — en 
conscience — en honneur — foi d’honnete homme — he 
was convinced he received it from Mr. Macpherson’s 
foreman. The foreman, who, from one step in villainy, 
found himself hurried on to another and another, now 
scrupled not to declare that he was ready to take his 
oath that he delivered the note and change, just as his 
master gave it to him, to M. Pasgrave. The magis- 
trate turned to the paler, conscientious, incapacitated 
dancing-master, and in a severe tone said, “Appear- 
ances are strangely against you, M. Pasgrave. Here’s 
a young gentleman has lost a bank-note — it is stopped 
a* ihe bank of Scotland — it is traced home to you — you 
say you got it from Mr. Macpherson or his foreman- - 
his books are produced — the entry in them is clearly 
against you ; for it slates that the note given to you in 
change was one of Sir William Forbes’ bank: and this 
which I hold now in my hand is of the bank of Scot- 
land. Please now to tell how this note of the bank of 
Scotland, which has been proved to be the property ot 


106 


MORAL TALES. 


Mr. Mackenzie, came into your possession. Prom whom 
did you receive it? or how did you come by it? I am 
not surprised that you decline taking an oath upon this 
occasion.’’ — Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi!” cried 
the innocent but terrified man, throwing himself upon 
one knee, in an attitude which, on the stage, would hav« 
produced a sublime effect — “ Ah, monsieur, ayez pitU 
de moi ! I have no more dan de child no sense in af- 
fairs!” Mackenzie interrupted him with a brutal laugh. 
The more humane banker’s clerk was moved by thn 
simplicity of this avowed ignorance of business. He 
went up to the distracted dancer, and said, ^Ht is not to 
be expected that every body should understand business 
as we do, sir : if you are innocent only give yourself 
time to recollect ; arid though it’s unfortunate that you 
never keep any regular accounts, maybe we shall be 

able to make out this affair of the entry. If Mr. 

will give me'leave to take this pen and ink, and if you 
will try to recollect all the persons from whom you have 

received money lately ” — ‘^Ah, mon Dieu! dat is 

impossible.” Then he began to name the quarterly 
and half-yearly payments that he had received from his 
various pupils.” — “ Did any of them lately give you a 
ten-guinea note?” — Ah, oui, jeme rappelle — un jeune 
monsieur — un certain monsieur, qui ne veut pas que — 
que est la incognito — who I would not betray for the 
world ; for he has behave wid de most pairfaite gene- 
rosite to me.” — But did he give you a ten-guinea bank- 
note? — that is all we want to know,” said the magis- 
trate. Mais — oui — yes.” — “ About what time ?” said 
the clerk. It was about the beginning of October: and 
this was so near the time when he settled accounts with 
Mr. Macpherson, the tailor, that he even himself began 
to believe it possible that he had mistaken one note for 
the other. When the young gentleman gave you the 
note,” said the banker’s clerk, “ surely you must have 
looked at it — you must have observed these remarkable 
stains?” Pasgrave replied that he did look at it, he 
supposed; that he saw it was a ten-guinea note; it 
might be stained ; it might not be stained ; he could, not 


FORESTER. 


107 


pretend to be certain about it. He repeated his assur- 
ances that he was ignorant of business, and of every- 
thing in this world but dancing. “ Pour la danse, je 
m’y connois, — pour les affaires, je n’en sais rien, inoi.” 

He, with his usual simplicity added, that if Mr. W 

would give him leave, he would go to the young gen- 
tleman, his friend, and learn from him exactly the num- 
ber of the note which he had given him; that he was 
sure he could recollect his own note immediately. Mac- 
kenzie, who thought that this was merely pretence, in 
order to escape, told him that he could not be suffered to 

go out upon his parole. “ But,” said Mr. W , tell 

us the name of this young gentleman who -has so much 
generosity, and who lives incognito. I don’t like gen- 
tlemen who live incognito. I think I had a young man 
here before me, about two months ago, charged with 
breaking a confectioner’s Avindows in a riot, the night 
of the great illuminations — Hey ! don’t I remember 
some such thing? And you, M. Pasgrave, if I mis- 
take not, interested yourself mightily about this young 
man ; and told me and my daughters, sir, that he was a 
young gentleman incognito. I begin to see through this 
affair. Perhaps this is the same young gentleman from 
whom you received the note. And pray what value 
did you give for it?” Pasgrave, whose fear of betray- 
ing Forester now increased his confusion, stammered, 
and first said the note was a present, but afterward 
added, I have been giving the young person lessons 
in dancing for dese six week.” 

" Well, theii, we must summon this young person,” 

said Mr. W . Tell us his name, if you please,” 

said Mackenzie ; “ I have some suspicion that I know 
your gentleman incognito.” — “You need not trouble 
him,” said the magistrate ; “ I know the name already, 
and I know where the bird is to be found : his name, if 
he has not changed it since he was last in this room, is 
Forester.” — “Forester!” exclaimed Mackenzie; “I 
thought so I I always thought how he would turn out. 
I wonder what his friends the Campbells will have tG 
say for him now !” 


108 


MORAL TALES. 


Mr. W ’s pen stopped. “ His friends the Camp- 

bell’s — humph ! So the Campbells are his friends, are 
they 1” repeated he. They were his friends,” answered 
Mackenzie j but Mr. Forester thought proper, nobody 
knows why, to run away from them, some months ago ; 
the only reason I could ever learn was that he did not 
like to live among gentlemen ; and he has been living 
ever since incognito among blackguards, and we see the 
fruits of it.” Mackenzie eagerly handed the summons, 

as soon as it was signed, to a constable; and Mr. W 

directed the constable to Mr. ’s, the bookseller, add- 

ing, “ booksellers and printers are dangerous persons.” 
The constable, who had seen Forester the night that he 
was confined with Tom Random, knew his face and per- 
son; and we have told our readers that he met Forester 
in George’s-square, going to Dr. Campbell’s to vindi- 
cate the innocence of the poor washerwoman. 

The tailor’s foreman was not a little alarmed when the 
summons was sent for our hero ; he dreaded that the 
voice of truth should be heard, and he skulked behind 
the rest of the company. What astonishment did For- 
ester feel when he entered the room, and saw the group 
that surrounded the justice’s table ! — Archibald Macken- 
zie, with an insulting sneer on his lips — Pasgrave, with 
eyes fixed on him in despair — Mr. Macpherson, thf 
tailor, pointing to an entry in his book — his foremaj 
shrinking from notice — the banker’s clerk, with benevo* 
lent skepticism in his countenance — and the justice, 
with a portentous scowl upon his brow. 

“ Come forward, Mr. Forester,” said the magistrate, 
as our hero made a sudden pause of astoiyshment ; 
^^come forward, sir !” Forester advanced with calm in- 
trepidity. ‘‘ You are better dressed than when I had the 
honour of seeing you here some time ago, sir. Are you 
a printer still, or a gentleman ? Your dress certainly be- 
speaks a change in your condition.” — “I am sure I 
should hardly know Mr. Forester again, he has grown 
such a beau — comparatively speaking, I mean,” said 
Mackenzie. — But certainly, M. Pasgrave, you must 
have made some mistake ; I don’t know how to believe 


FORESTER. 


109 


my senses ! Is this the young gentleman to whom you 

alluded? — do you know him ?” — ‘‘Give me leave, 

Mr. Mackenzie,” interrupted the justice : “ I shall ex- 
amine this young incognito rnysell'. I think I know how 
to come at the truth. Will you do me the favour, sir, to 
inform me whether you recollect any thing of a ten- 
guinea bank-note which you gave or paid, some time in 
last October, to this gentleman ?” pointing to M. Pas- 
grave. — “ I do,” replied Forester, in a distinct, unem- 
barrassed voice. “ Perfectly well remember giving M. 
Pasgrave a ten-guinea bank-note.” Ah, monsieur, je ne 

suis pas un ingrat. — Ne pensez pas que ” — “ O, M. 

Pasgrave,” interrupted Mackenzie, “ this is no time for 
compliments and fine speeches : for God's sake, let us 
get to the bottom of this affair without further ceremo- 
ny.” — “Sir,” said the banker’s clerk, “All we want to 
know is the number of your note, and the firm of the 
house. Was your note one of Sir William Forbes’, or 
of the bank of Scotland ?” Forester was silent. “ I do 
not recollect,” said he, after some pause. “ You don’t 
recollect, sir,”'’said the justice, “is something like an 
evasive answer. You must have a vast number of 
bank-notes then,Ave must presume, if you cannot recol- 
lect to what bank your ten-guinea note belonged.” For- 
ester did not understand this logic ; but he simply repeat- 
ed his assertion. — “ Pray, sir,” said the tailor, who could 
no longer restrain his impatience — “Pray, sir,” said 
the magistrate, in a solemn manner, “ be silent. I shall 
find out the truth. So, Mr. Forester, you cannot possibly 
recollect the house of your note? You will tell us next, 
I dare say, that you cannot possibly recollect how you 
came by it.” — “Sir,” said Forester, “if it is necessary, 
I can readily tell you how I came by it.” — “ It is very 
necessary, sir, for your own credit.” — “I received it 
from Dr. Campbell.” — “ Dr. Campbell !” repeated the 
magistrate, changing his tone. “ And I have some idea 
that the Dr. gave me a list of the numbers of that and 
four other notes, with which I fortunately have not 
parted.” — “Some idea means nothing in a court of jus- 
tice, sir ; if you have any such paper, you can do us 


110 


MORAL TALES. 


the favour to produce it.’’ Now this list was locked up 
in the trunk, of which the key was dropped into the 
brewing-vat. Richardson, the clerk, had returned the 
key to him ; but, such is the force of habit, he had not 
cured himself of the foolish trick of twirling it upon his 
thumb; and about two months ago he dropped it in one 
of his walks to Arthur’s Seat. He long searched for it 
among the rocky fragments, but at last gave it up — he 
little imagined of how much consequence it might be to 
him. Dr. Campbell had once refused to break open the 
lock, and he felt very unwilling to apply to him in his 
present circumstances. However, he wrote a few lines 
to Henry Campbell ; but as soon as he had written them, 
his pride again revolted from the thoughts of suppli- 
cating the assistance pf his friend in such a disgraceful 
situation. If you don’t choose to write,” said the offi- 
cious malevolence of Archibald, “ I can, however, 
speak ; I’ll desire Dr. Campbell to open your trunk, and 
search for the paper.” He left the room before Fores- 
ter could make any further opposiiion. 

“ I have answered, I hope, both distinctly and respect- 
fully, all the questions that you have asked me,” said 

Forester, turning to Mr. W . “I hope, you will no 

longer keep me in the dark. Of what am I suspected 
— “ I will tell you, sir,” replied the deliberate, unfeeling 
magistrate : “ you are suspected of having, I will not say 
stolen, but you are more than suspected of having come 
unfairly by a certain ten guinea bank-note, which the 
young gentleman who has just left the room lost a few 
months ago.” Forester, as this speech was slowly pro- 
nounced, sat down, folded his arms, and appeared to- 
tally insensible — quite unconscious that he was in the 
presence of a magistrate, or that any human being was 
observing him. ‘‘ Ah, mon cher monsieur, pardonnez !” 
cried Pasgrave, bursting into tears. N’en parlons 
plus,” added he, turning to the magistrate. “ Je paye- 
rai tout ce qu’il faut. I will pay de ten guineas. I will 
satisfy every body. I cannot never forgive myself if I 
bring him into any disgrace.” — Disgrace!” exclaimed 
Forester, starting up, and repeating the word in a tone 


FORESTER. 


Ill 


which made every person in the room, not excepting the 
phlegmatic magistrate, start and look up to him, with a 
sudden feeling of inferiority. His ardent eye spoke the lan- 
guage of his soul. No words could express his emotion. 
The master-tailor dropped his day-book. “ Constable — 
call a constable!’^ cried the justice. Sir, you forget 
in whose presence you are — you think, I suppose, that 
your friends the Campbells will bear you out. Sir, I 
would have you to know that all the Campbells in Scot- 
land can’t bail you for a felony. Sir, philosophers 
should know these things. If you cannot clear your- 
self to my entire satisfaction, Mr. Forester, I shall com- 
mit you — in one word — to jail : — yes — look as you 
please, sir — to jail. And if the doctor and his son, and 
alb his family, come up to bail you, I shall, meo periculo, 
ref^use their bail. The law, sir, is no respecter of per- 
sons. So none of your rhodomontades, young gentle- 
man, in my presence ; but step into this closet, if you 
please ; and, I advise you, bring your mind into a be- 
coming temperament, while I go to dinner. ‘‘ Gentle- 
men,” continued he to Macpherson and Pasgrave, 
‘^you’ll be SQgood as to wait here in this apartment. Con- 
stable, look to your prisoner,” pointing to the door of 
the closet. John, let me know when Dr. Campbell 
arrives ; and tell them to send up dinner directly,” said 
the justice to his butler. 

While he dines, we must leave the tailor complaining 
that he was wasting precious time ; the foreman in the 
panic of guilt ; and the good-natured dancing-master 
half-distracted between his fears and his ignorance. 
He looked from time to time through the key-hole of 
the closet in which Forester was confined, and ex- 
claimed, Grand Dieu ! comme il a Pair noble a cet 
instant ! Ah ! lui coupable ! — he go to jail ! — it is im- 
possible!” 

We shall see how that will be presently,” said the 
foreman, who had hitherto preserved absolute silence. 

abide by my books,” said the master-tailor; and I 
wish Dr. Campbell would make haste. I have lost a 
day!’^ 


112 


MORAL TALES. 


In spite of the tailor’s imperial excla»nation, he was 
obliged to wait some time longer. When Mackenzie 
arrived at Dr. Campbell’s, Henry was not at home : he 
was gone to the house at the back of the meadows, to 
prepare some chemical experiments for the next day’s 
lecture. Mackenzie, however, found Dr. Campbell at 
home in his study; and, in a soft hypocritical voice, la- 
mented that he was obliged to communicate some dis- 
agreeable circumstances relating to young Mr. Forester. 
“ You do not, I presume, know where that unfortunate, 
misguided youth is at present — at this moment, I mean.” 
— “ I do not know where he is at this moment,” said 
Dr. Campbell calmly ; but I know where he has been 

for some time — at Mr. ’s, the bookseller. I have 

had my eye upon him ever since he left this house. I 
have traced him from place to place. Though I have 
said little about him, Mr. Mackenzie, I have a great re- 
gard for my unfortunate ward.” — “ I am sorry for it,” 
said Mackenzie : “ I fear I must wound your feelings the 
more deeply. — ‘‘What is the matter? pray speak at 
once,” cried Dr. Campbell, who nov/ forgot all his usual 
calmness. “ Where is Forester?” — “ He is at this mo- 
ment before Mr. W , the magistrate, sir, charged 

with — but, I own, I cannot believe him guilty ” — 

“ Charged with what? For God’s sake, speak plainly, 
Mr. Mackenzie!” — “Then, in one word, sir, my lost 
bank-note is traced home to Mr. Forester. Mr. Pasgrave 
says he received it from him.” — “ Surely, sir,” said Dr. 
Campbell, with indignation, “you would not insinuate 
that Forester has stolen your bank note?” — “I insinuate 
nothing, doctor,” said Archibald ; “ but I fear the thing 
is too plainly proved. My bank-note has certain stains, 
by which it has been identified. All that 1 know is that 

Mr. W says he can take no bail; and that he must 

commit Mr. Forester to jail, unless he can clear him- 
self. He says that a few days before he left your house 
you paid him his quarterly allowance of fifty guineas 
m five ten guinea bank notes.” — “ He says true — I did 
so,” said Dr. Campbell eagerly. — “And he says that 
you gave them to him wrapped in a piece of paper, on 


FORESTER. 


113 


which the numbers of the notes were written.’^ — “ I 
remember it distinctly : I desired him to take care of that 
paper.” — He is not famous for taking care, you know, 
sir, of any thing. He says he believes he threw it into 
his trunk; but he has lost the key of the trunk, I un- 
derstand.” — ‘‘No matter; we can break it open this in- 
stant, and search for the paper,” cried Dr. Campbell, 
who was now extremely alarmed for his ward. Mac- 
kenzie stood by without offering any assistance, while 
Dr. Campbell broke open the trunk, and searched it 
with the greatest anxiety. It was in terrible disorder. 
The coat and waistcoat which Forester wore at the ball 
were crammed in at the top; and underneath appeared 
unfolded linen, books, boots, maps, shoes, cravats, fossils, 
and heaps of little rumpled bitsof paper, in which the fos- 
sils had once been contained. Dr. Campbell opened every 
one of these. The paper he wanted was not among 
them. He took every thing out of the box, shook and 
searched all the pockets of the coat, in which Forester 
used, before his reformation, to keep hoards of strange 
papers. No list of bank-notes appeared. At length Dr. 
Campbell espied the white corner of a paper-mark, in a 
volume of Goldsmith’s Animated Nature. He pulled 
out this mark, and, to his great joy, he found it to be 
the very paper he wanted. “ So it’s found, is it?” said 
Mackenzie, disappointed; while Dr. Campbell seized 
his hat, left every thing upon the floor, and was very 
near locking the door of the room upon Mackenzie. 
“ Don’t lock me in here, doctor — I am going back with 

you to Mr. W ’s” said Archibald. “Won’t you 

stay — dinner’s going up — Mr. W was going to his 

dinner when I came away.” Without listening to him. 
Dr. Campbell just let him out, locked the door, and hur- 
ried away to his poor ward. 

“I have let things go too far,” said he to himself. 
“As long as Forester’s credit was not in danger, as long 
as he was unknown, it was very well ; but now his 
character is at stake ; he may pay too dear for his expe- 
rience.” 

“ Dr. Campbell,” said the pompous magistrate, who 

K 2 


114 


MORAL TALES. 


hated philosophers, rising from the table as Dr, Camp- 
bell entered, “ do not speak to me of bailing this ward 
of yours — it is impossible, sir; I know my duty.’^ 
am not come to offer bail for my ward,” said Dr. Camp- 
bell, “ but to prove his innocence.” — ‘^We must hope 
the best,” said Mr. W ; and, having forced the doc- 

tor to pledge him in a bumper of port — now I am 
ready to proceed again to an examination of all the par- 
ties concerned.” 

Dr. Campbell was now shown into the room where 
Mr. Macpherson, his foreman, and Pasgrave, were 
waiting, ‘‘Ah, monsieur, Dieu rnerci, vous voila!” 

exclaimed Pasgrave. “ You may go,” said Mr. W 

to the constable, “ but wait below stairs,” He unlock- 
ed the closet-door. Forester, at the sight of Dr. Camp- 
bell, covered his face with his hands ; but, an instant 
afterward, he advanced with intrepidity. “ You can- 
not, I am sure, believe me to be guilty of any mean- 
ness, Dr. Campbell,” said he. “ Imprudent I have 
been, and I suffer for my folly.” — “ Guilty!” cried Dr. 
Campbell ; “ no ; I could almost as soon suspect my 
own son of such an action. But my belief is nothing 
to the purpose. We must prove your innocence.” — 
“Ah oui, monsieur — and mine too; for I am innocent, 
I can assure you,” cried M. Pasgrave. “ The whole busi- 
ness, sir,” said the banker’s clerk, who had by this time 
returned to hear the termination of the affair — “ the 
whole thing can be settled in two minutes by a gentle- 
man like you, who understands business. Mr. Forester 
cannot recollect the number or the firm of a ten-guinea 
bank-note which he gave to M. Pasgrave. M. Pasgrave 
cannot recollect either; and he is in doubt whether he 
received this stained note, which Mr. Mackenzie lost, 
from Mr. Forester or from Mr. Macpherson the tailor.” 
— “ There can be no doubt about me,” said Macpher- 
son. “ Dr. Campbell, will you be so good as to look 
at the entry ? I acknowledge 1 gave M. Pasgrave a ten- 
guinea note ; but here’s the number of it, 177, of Forbes’ 
bank, Mr. Mackenzie’s note, you see, is of the bank 
of Scotland ; and the stains upon it are so remarkable, 


FORESTER. 


115 


that if I had ever seen it before I should certainly re- 
member it. Pll take my oath I never saw it before.’^ — 
“ Sir,’’ said Forester eagerly to Dr. Campbell, ‘‘ you 
gave me five ten-guinea notes: here are four of them in 
this pocket-book ; the fifth I gave to M. Pasgrave. Can 
you tell me the number of that note ?” — 1 can,” said 
Dr. Campbell, producing the paper which he found in 
Goldsmith’s Animated Nature. “ I had the precaution 
to write doAvn the numbers of all your notes myself. 
Here they are.” Forester opened his pocket-book. His 
four remaining notes were compared, and perfectly 
agreed with the numbers in the list. The fifth, the 
number of the note which he gave to Pasgrave, was 
1260, of the New Bank. One of your ten-guinea 
notes,” said Dr. Campbell to Pasgrave, “ you paid into 
the bank of Scotland ; and this gentleman,” pointing 
to the banker’s clerk, “ stopped it this morning. Now 
you have had another ten-guinea note ; what became 
of that?” Pasgrave, who understood Dr. Campbell’s 
plain method of questioning him, answered immediately, 
“I did give the other to my hairdresser — not long ago 

— who lives in street.” Dr. Campbell instantly 

went himself to the hairdresser — found that he had the note 

still in his possession — brought him to Mr. W ’s, 

and, when the note was examined, it was found to be 
1260, of the New Bank, which exactly corresponded 
with the entry in the list of notes which Dr. Campbell 
had produced. 

Then all is right,” said Dr. Campbell. — Ah, oui ! 
— Ah, non !” exclaimed Pasgrave. “ What will be- 
come of me ?” — Compose yourself, my good sir,” said 
Dr. Campbell. “You had but two ten-guinea notes, 
you are sure of that?” — “But two — but two — I will 
swear, but two.” — “ You are now certain which of these 
two notes you had from my ward. The other, you say, 
you received from — — ” — “From dis gentleman, I will 
swear,” cried Pasgrave, pulling the tailor’s foreman for- 
ward. “ I can swear now I am in no embarrass ; I am 
sure I did get de oder note from dis gentleman.” The 
master-tailor was astonished to see all the pallid marks 


116 


MORAL TALES. 


of guilt in his foreman’s countenance. “ Did you change 
the note that I gave you in the inner room said Mr. 
Macpherson. The foreman, as soon as he could com- 
mand his voice, denied the charge ; and persisted in it 
that he gave the note and change, which his master 
wrapped up, exactly as it was, to the dancing-master. 
Dr. Campbell proposed that the tailor’s shop and the 

foreman’s room should be searched. Mr. W sent 

proper people to Mr. Macpherson’s ; and while they are 
searching his house we may inquire what is become of 
Henry Campbell. 


V 


THE CATASTROPHE. 

Henry Campbell, the last time we heard of him, was 
at the house at the back of the meadows. When he 
went into the large room to his chemical experiments, 
the little girl, who was proud of having arranged it 
neatly, ran on before him, and showed him the places 
where all his things were put. “ The writing and the 
figures are not rubbed off your slate — there it is, sir,” 
said she, pointing to a high shelf. “ But whose hand- 
kerchief is this?” said Henry taking up a handkerchief 
which was under the slate . — “ Gracious ! that must be 
the good gentleman’s handkerchief; he missed it just as 
he was going out of the house. He thought he had left 
it at the washerwoman’s, where I met him; and he’s 
gone back to look for it there. I’ll run with it to the 
washerwoman’s — maybe she knows where to find him.” 
^^But you have not told me who he is. Who do you 
mean by the good gentleman ?”— ‘^ The good gentleman, 
sir, that I saw with you at the watchmaker’s the day 
that you helped me to carry the great geranium out ol 
my grandmother’s room.” — “ Do you mean that For- 
ester has been here ?” exclaimed Henry. I never 
heard his name, sir ; but I mean that the gentleman has 
been here, whom I call the good gentleman, because it 


i 


FORESTER. 


117 




was he who went with me to my cross schoolmistress, 
to try to persuade her to use me well. She beat me, to 
be sure, after he was gone, for what he had said ; but 
I’m not the less obliged to him, because he did every 
thing as he thought for the best. And so I’ll run with 
his handkerchief to the woman’s, who will give it safe 
to him.” 

Henry recollected his promise to his father. It re- 
quired all his power over himself to forbear questioning 
the child, and endeavouring to find out something more 
of his friend. He determined to mention the circum- 
stance to his father, and to Flora, as soon as he returned 
home. He was always impatient to tell any thing to 
his sister that interested himself or his friends : for Flo- 
ra’s gayety was not of that unfeeling sort which seeks 
merely for amusement, and which, unmixed with sym- 
pathy for others, may divert in a companion, but dis- 
gusts in a friend. 

While Plenry was reflecting upon the manner in which 
he might most expeditiously arrange his chemical ex- 
periments and return home, the little girl came running 
back, with a face of great distress. As soon as she had 
breath to speak, she told Henry that when she went to 
the washerwoman’s with the handkerchief, she was told 
a sad piece of news — that Mr. Forester had been taken 

up and carried before Mr. W , the magistrate. “ We 

don’t know what he has done. I’m sure I don’t think 
he can have done any thing wrong.” Henry no sooner 
heard these words than he left all his retorts, rushed out ol 
the house, hurried home to his father, and learned from 
Flora with great surprise, that his father had already 

been sent for, and was gone to Mr. W ’s. She di^ 

not know the circumstances that Mackenzie related to 
Dr. Campbell ; but she told him that her father seemed 
much alarmed ; that she met him crossing the hall, and 
that he could not stop to speak to her. Henry proceed- 
ed directly to Mr. W ’s, and he arrived there just as 

the people returned from the search of the tailor’s house. 
His opinion of Forester’s innocence was so strong, 
that when he entered the room he instantly walked up 


118 


MORAL TALES. 


to him, and embraced him with a species of frank con- 
fidence in his manner which, to Forester, was more ex- 
pressive than any thing that he could have said. The 
whole affair was quickly explained to him; and the peo- 
ple who had been sent to Mr. Macpherson^s now came 

up stairs to Mr. W , and produced a ten-guinea 

bank-note, which was found in the foreman’s box. 
Upon examination, this was discovered to be the very 
note which Mr. Macpherson sent with the change to 
Pasgrave. It was No. 177, of Sir William . Forbes’ 
bank, as mentioned in the circumstantial entry in the 
day-book. The joy of the poor dancing-master at this 
complete proof of his innocence was rapturous and vo- 
luble. Secure of the sympathy of Forester, Henry, and 
Dr. Campbell, he looked at them by turns, while he 
congratulated himself upon this eclaircissement and 
assured the banker’s clerk that he would in future keep 
accounts. We are impatient to get rid of the guilty 
foreman: he stood a horrible image of despair. He was 
committed to jail ; and was carried away by the con- 
stables, without being pitied by any person present. 
Everybody, however, was shocked. Mackenzie broke 
silence first, by exclaiming, “ Well, now, I presume, 

Mr. W , I may take possession of my bank-note 

again.” He took up all the notes which lay upon the 
table to search among them for his own, Mine, you 
know, is stained,” said Archibald. — “ But it is very sin- 
gular,” said Henry Campbell, who was looking over 
his shoulder, “ that here are two stained notes. That 
which was found in the foreman’s box is stained in one 
corner, exactly as yours was stained, Mr. Mackenzie.” 
Macpherson, the tailor, now stooped to examine it. Is 
this No. 177, the note that I sent in change, by my fore- 
man, to M. Pasgrave? I’ll take my oath it was not 
stained in that manner when I took it out of my desk. 
It was a new and quite clean note. It must have been 
stained since.” — And it must have been stained with 
vitriolic acid,” continued Henry. — “ Ay , there’s cunning 
for you,” cried Archibald. “ The foreman, I suppose, 
stained it, that it might not be known again.” — Have 


FORESTER. 


119 


you any vitriolic acid in your house?” pursued Henry, 
addressing himself to the master-tailor. — “ Not I, indeed, 
sir: we have nothing to do with such things. They’d 
be very dangerous to us.” — Pray,” said Henry, will 

you give me leave, Mr. W , to ask the person who 

searched the foreman’s box a few questions ?” — Cer- 
tainly, sir,” said Mr. W ; “ though, I protest, I can- 

not see what you are driving at.” Henry inquired what 
was found in the box with the bank-note. The man who 
searched it enumerated a variety of things. None of 
these,” said Henry, “could have stained the note. Are 
you sure that there was nothing else?” — “Nothing in the 
world — nothing but an old glass stopper, I believe.” — “I 
wish I could see that stopper,” said Henry. — “ This note 
was rolled round it,” said the man, “ but I threw it into 
the box again. I’ll go and fetch it, sir, if you have any 
curiosity to see it.” — “Curiosity to see an old stopper? 
No!” cried Archibald Mackenzie, with a forced laugh; 
^‘what good would that do us? We have been kept 
here long enough. I move that we go home to our din- 
ners.” But Dr. Campbell, who saw that Henry had 
some particular reason for wishing to see this glass stop- 
per, seconded his son. The man went for it ; and when 
he brought it into the room, Henry Campbell looked at 
it very carefully, and then decidedly said, fixing his 
eyes upon Archibald Mackenzie, who in vain struggled 
to keep his countenance from changing, “This glass 
stopper, Mr. Mackenzie, is the stopper of my father’s 
vitriolic acid bottle, that was broken the night the cat 
was killed. This stopper has stained both the bank- 
notes. And it must have been in the pocket of your 
waistcoat.” — “My pocket!” interrupted Archibald: 
“ how should it come into my pocket ? It never was in 
my pocket, sir.” Henry pointed to the stain on his waist- 
coat. He wore the very waistcoat in question. “ Sir,” 
said Archibald, “ I don’t know what you mean by point- 
ing at my waistcoat. It is stained, it is true, and very 
likely by vitriolic acid ; but, as I have been so often in 
the doctor’s laboratory, when your chemical experiments 
have been going on, is it not very natural to suppose 


120 ' 


MORAL TALES. 


that a drop of one of the acids might have fallen on my 
clothes? I have seen your waistcoats stained, I am sure 
Really, Mr. Campbell, you are unfriendly, uncharita- 
ble; your partiality for Mr. Forester should not blind 
you, surely. I know you ^vant to exculpate him from 
having any hand in the death of that cat; but that 
should not, my dear sir, make you forget what is due to 
justice. You should not, permit me to say, endeavour 
to criminate an innocent person.” — “This is all very 
fine,” said Henry ; “ and you may prove your inno- 
cence to me at once, Mr. Mackenzie, if you think pro- 
per, by showing that the waistcoat was really, as^you 
assert, stained by a drop of vitriolic acid falling upon 
the outside of it. Will you show us the inside of the 
pocket?” — Mackenzie, who was now in too much con- 
fusion to know distinctly what Henry meant to prove, 
turned the pocket inside out, and repeated, “ That stop- 
per was never in my pocket. I’ll swear.” — “Don’t 
swear to that, for God’s sake,” said Henry. “ Consi- 
der what you are saying. You see that there is a hole 
burnt in this pocket. Now if a drop of acid had fallen, 
as you said, upon the outside of the waistcoat, it must 
have been more burnt on the outside than on the inside.” 
“ I don’t know — I can’t pretend to be positive,” said 
Archibald; “ but what signifies all this rout about the 
stopper?” — “ It signifies a great deal to me,” said Dr. 
Campbell, turning away from Mackenzie with con- 
tempt, and addressing himself to his ward, who met his 
approving eye with proud delight — “it signifies a great 
deal to me. Forgive me, Mr. Forester, for having 
doubted your word for a moment.” Forester held his 
guardian’s hand, without being able for some instants to 
reply. You are coming home with us. Forester?” said 
Henry. — “No,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling; “you 
must not ask him to come home with us to-night. We 
liave a little dance at our house to-night. Lady Cathe- 
rine M*ackenzie wished to take leave of her Edinburgh 
friends. She goes from us to-morrow. We must not 
expect to see Forester at a hall; but to-morrow morn- 
ing ” — “I see,” said Forester, smiling, “you have 


FORESTER. 


121 


no faith in my reformation. Well, I have affairs to set- 
tle with my master, the printer. I must go home, and' 
take leave of him. He has been a good master to me ; 
and I must go and finish my task of correcting. Adieu.’^ 

He abruptly left Dr. Campbell and Henry, and went to 
the bookseller’s, to inform him of all that had passed, 
and to thank him for all his kindness. ‘‘ You will be at 
a loss to-morrow for a corrector of the press,” said he, 
“ I am determined you shall not suffer for my vagaries. 
Send home the proof-sheets of the work in hand to me, 
at Dr. Campbell’s, and I will return them to you punc- 
tually corrected. Employ me till you have provided 
yourself with another, I will not say a better, hand. I 
do not imagine,” continued Forester, “ that I can pay 
you for your kindness to me by presents; indeed I know 
you are in such circumstances that you disdain money. 
But I hope you will accept of a small mark of my re- 
gard — a complete fount of new types.” 

While Forester’s generous heart expanded with joy 
at the thoughts of returning once more to his friends, 
w^e are sorry to leave him to finish the history of Archi- 
bald Mackenzie. He sneaked home after Dr. Camp- 
bell and Henry, whose silent contempt he well under- 
stood. Dr, Campbell related all that had passed to 
Lady Catherine. Her ladyship showed herself more 
apprehensive that her son’s meanness should be made 
known to the world, than indignation or sorrow for his 
conduct. Archibald, while he was dressing for the ball, 
began to revolve in his mind certain words which his 
mother had said to him about his havins; received the lie 
direct from Henry Campbell — his not having the spirit 
of a gentleman. “ She certainly meant,” said he to 
himself, “ that I ought to fight him. It’s the only way 
I can come off, as he spoke so plainly before Mr. 

W , and all those people : the banker’s clerk too 

was by; and, as my mother says, it will be talked of. 
I’ll get Sir Philip Gosling to go with my message. I 
think I’ve heard Dr. Campbell say he disapproved of 
duels. Perhaps Henry won’t fight. — Has Sir Philip 
Gosling sent to say whether he would be with us at the 


122 


MORAL TALES. 


ball to-night?” said Archibald to the servant who was 
dressing his hair. — No, sir,” replied the servant: 
“Sir Philip’s man has not been here; but Major 
O’Shannon has been here twice since you were away, 
to see you. He said he had some message to deliver 
from Sir Philip to you.” — “To me! — message to me!” 
repeated Archibald, turning pale. Archibald knew Ma- 
jor O’Shannon, Avho had of late insinuated himself into 
Sir Philip Gosling’s favour, had a particular dislike to 
him, and had successfully bullied him upon one or 
two occasions. Archibald had that civil cowardice 
which made him excessively afraid of the opinion of 
the world; and Major O’Shannon, a gamester, who 
was jealous of his influence over the rich dupe Sir Phi- 
lip, determined to entangle him in a quarrel. The ma- 
jor knocked at the door a third time before Archibald 
was dressed; and when he was told that he was dress- 
ing, and could not see any one, he sent up the follow- 
ing note : — , 


Sir, 

“ The last time I met you at the livery stables, in com- 
pany with my friend. Sir Philip Gosling, I had the 
honour of telling you my mind, in terms sufficiently 
explicit, concerning a transaction which cannot have 
escaped your memory. My friend. Sir Philip, declares 
you never hinted that the pony was spavined. I don’t 
pretend to be so good a jockey as you; but you’ll ex- 
cuse my again saying I can’t consider your conduct as 
that of a gentleman. Sir Philip is of my mind ; and if 
you resent my interference, I am ready to give you the 
satisfaction of a gentleman. If not, you will do well to 
leave Edinburgh along with your mother to-morrow 
morning ; for Edinburgh is no place for cowards, as 
long as one has the honour of living in it who calls him- 
self (by courtesy), 

“ Your humble servant, 

“ Cornelius O’SftANNON. 

“ P. S. Sir Philip is at your service, after your set- 
tling with me.” 


FORESTER. 


J23 


Archibald, oppressed with the sense of his own mean- 
ness, and somewhat alarmed at the idea of fighting three 
duels, to retrieve his credit, thought it best to submit, 
without struggle, in the first instance, to that public dis- 
grace which he had merited. He wrote a shabby apo- 
logy to Major O’Shannon and Sir Philip, concluding 
with saying, that rather than lose a friend he so much 
valued as Sir Philip Gosling, he was willing to forget 
all that had passed, and even to take back the pony, and 
to return Sawney if the matter could by this means be 
adjusted to his satisfaction. He then went to his mo- 
ther, and talked to her, in a high style, of his desperate 
intentions with respect to Henry Campbell . — “ Either 
ae or I must fall before we quit the ground,” said the art- 
ful Archibald — well knowing that Lady Catherine’s ma- 
ternal tenderness would be awakened by these ideas. 
Other ideas were also awakened in the prudent mother’s 
mind. Dr. Campbell was nearly related to a general offi- 
cer, from whom she looked for promotion for her son. 
She repented, upon reflection, of what she had hastily 
said concerning the lie direct, and the spirit of a gentle- 
man; and she softened down her pride, and talked of her 
dislike to breaking up old family friendships. Thence she 
digressed into hints of the advantages that might accrue 
from cultivating Dr. Campbell’s good opinion ; admit- 
ted that Henry was strangely prejudiced in favour of 
his rough friend Forester; but observed that Mr. For- 
ester, after all, though singular, was a young man of 
merit, and at the head of a very considerable estate. 

Archidald,” said she, we must make allowances, 
and conciliate matters — unless you make this young 
gentleman your friend, you can never hope to be on an 
eligible footing with his guardian. His guardian, you 
see, is glad to get him back again, and, I dare say, has 
his reasons. I never saw him, — and I know him well, 
— in such spirits in my life as he was when he came 
back to us to announce the probability of his ward’s re- 
turn to-morrow morning. The doctor, I dare say, has 
good reasons for what he does ; and I understand his 
ward is reconciled to the idea of living in the world, 

% 


124 


MORAL TALES. 


and enjoying his fine fortune like other people. So I 
hope you and he, and of course you and the doctor, 
and Henry Campbell, will be very good friends. I shall 
leave you at Edinburgh for a few months, till we get our 
-commission; and I shall beg the doctor to introduce 

you to his friend and relation. General D . If 

he can do nothing for you, you may look towards the 
church. I trust to your prudence not to think of Flora 
Campbell, though 1 leave you in the house with her : 
for you can’t afford, Archibald, to marry a girl with so 
small a fortune ; and you may be sure her friends have 
other views for her. Pray let me hear no more of duels 
and quarrels. And let us go down into -the ball-room; 
for Miss Campbell has been dressed and down stairs 
this half-hour ; and 1 would not have you inattentive — 
that might displease as much as the other extreme. In 
short, I may safely leave you to your own discretion.” 
Lady Catherine, after this prudent exhortation, entered 
the ball-room where all the company soon after assem- 
bled. Seated in^ gay ranges, the well-dressed belles 
were eager for the dancing to commence. Lady Cathe- 
rine stood by Dr. Campbell ; and as soon as the ball be- 
gan, when the music played, and she saw every one 
absorbed in themselves, or in their partners, she address- 
ed herself to the doctor, on the subject which was 
next her heart, or rather next her. imagination. “The 
general is to be with you shortly, I understand,” said 
she. Dr. Campbell coldly answered in the affirmative. 
“To be candid with you, doctor, if you’ll sit down, I 
want to have a little chat with you about my Archibald. 
He is not every thing I could wish, and I see you are 
displeased with him about this foolish business that has 
just happened. For my own part, I think him to blame ; 
but we must pardon, we must make allowances for the 
errors of youth ; and I need not, to a man of your hu- 
manity, observe what a cruel thing it is to prejudice 
the world against a young man, by telling little anec- 
dotes to his disadvantage. Relations must surely uphold 
one another ; and I am convinced you will speak of 
Aichibald with candour and friendship. 


FORESTER. 


125 


“ With candour and wiih truth,” replied Dr. Campbell. 
“I cannot pretend to feel friendship merely on the 
ecore of relationship.” 

The proud blood mounted into Lady Catherine’s 
face, and she replied, Some consideration of one’s own 
relations, I think, is not unbecoming. Archibald, I 
should have thought, had as strong a claim upon Dr. 
Campbell’s friendship as the son of an utter stranger to 
the family. Old Mr. Forester had a monstrous fortune, 
his true ; but his wife, who was no grand affair, I be- 
lieve — a merchant’s daughter, I’m told — brought him 
the greatest part of it ; and yet without any natural con- 
nexion between the families, or any thing very desirable, 
setting fortune out of the question, you accept the guar- 
dianship of this young man, aud prefer him, I plainly 
see, to my Archibald. I candidly ask you the question, 
and answer me candidly.” 

“ As you have explicitly asked the question, I will 
answer your ladyship candidly. 1 do prefer my ward 
to your son. I have avoided drawing comparisons be- 
tween your son and Forester ; and I now wish to avoid 
speaking of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, because I have 
little hopes of being of service to him.” 

“ Nay, said Lady Catherine, softening her tone, you 
know you have it in your power to be of the greatest 
service to him.” 

“I have done all I eould,” said Dr. Campbell, with a 
sigh ; but habits of — ” 

“ O, but I’m not talking of habits,” interrupted Lady 
Catherine. I’ll make him alter his habits. We shall 
soon turn him into what you like : he’s very quick j 
and you must not expect every young man to be just 
cut out upon the pattern of our dear Henry. I don’t 
want to trouble you to alter his habits, or to teach him 
chemistry, or any of those things. But you can, you 
know, without all that, do him an essential service.” 

“ How ?” said Dr. Campbell. 

Why how! I don’t know you this evening, you 
are so dry. Ken you not what I mean ? Speak three 
■words for him to your friend the general.” 

L 2 


128 


MORAL TALES. 


Your ladyship must excuse me,’’ said Dr. Camp- 

Dell. 

Lady Catherine was stunned oy this distinct refusaL 
She urged Dr. Campbell to explain the cause of his dis- 
like to her son. 

“There is a poor washerwoman now below stairs,” 
replied Dr. Campbell, “ who can explain to you more 
than I wish to explain ; and a story about a horse of Sir 
Philip Gosling was told to me the other day, by one of 
the baronet’s friends, which I should be glad Mr. Archi- 
bald Mackenzie could contradict effectually.” 

“Archibald, come here,” said Lady Catherine: be- 
fore the next dance begins, I must speak to you. What 
is this about a horse of Sir Philip Gosling?” 

Ma’am!” said Archibald, with great astonishment. 
At this instant one of Dr. Campbell’s servants came 
into the room, and gave two notes to Archibald, which, 
he said, two gentlemen had just left, and desired him to 
deliver to Mr. Mackenzie while he was in the ball-room, 
if posible. 

“ What is it ? — What are they, child ?’’ cried Lady 
Catherine. “ I will see them.” Her ladyship snatched 
the notes, read, and when she saw that her son, in the 
grossest terms, was called a coward, for refusing the 
challenges of two such fashionable men as Sir Philip 
Gosling and Major O’Shannon, aU her hopes of him 
were at an end. “Our family is disgraced for ever!” 
she exclaimed ; and then preceiving that she had utter- 
ed this unguarded sentence loud enough for several of 
the company to hear, she endeavoured to laugh, and fell 
into violent hysterics. She was carried out of the ball- 
room. A whisper now ran round the room of — What’s 
the matter with Lady Catherine Mackenzie?” It was 
an unfortunate moment that she was carried out, for all 
the dancers had just seated themselves, after a brisk 
country-dance; and the eyes of all the young and old 
were upon her ladyship as she made her exit. A 
young man, a friend of Major O’Shannon, who was 
present, whispered the secret to his partner; she, of 
course, to her next neighbour. Archibald saw that the 


FORESTER. 12 ? 

contents of the notes were made public; and he quilted 
the apartment ‘‘to inquire how his mother did.” 

The buzz of scandal was general for some moments ; 
but a new object soon engrossed the attention of the com- 
pany. “ Pray,” said a young lady, who was looping up 
Flora Campbell’s gown, “ who is this gentleman who is 
just coming into the room?” Flora looked up and saw 
a well-dressed stranger entering the room, who had much 
the appearance of a gentleman. He certainly resembled 
a person she had^ seen before ; but she could scarcely 
believe that her eyes did no deceive her. Therefore she 
hesitatingly replied to the young lady’s question, “I 
don’t know — I am not sure.” But she, an instant after- 
ward, saw her brother Henry and her father advance so 
eagerly to meet the stranger, that her doubts vanished ; 
and, as he now directed his steps towards the spot where 
she was standing, she corrected her first answer to her 
companion’s question, and said, “ Yes, I fancy — it cer- 
tainly is — Mr. Forester.” Forester, with an open counte- 
nance, slightly tinged with the blush of ingenuous shame, 
approached her, as if he was afraid she had not forgot- 
ten some things which he wished to be forgotten ; and 
yet as if he were conscious that he was not wholly un- 
worthy of her esteem. “Among other prejudices of 
which I have cured myself,” said he to Dr. Campbell, 
“since we parted, I have cured myself of my foolish 
antipathy to Scotch reels.” 

“That I can scarcely believe,” said Dr. Campbell, 
with an incredulous smile. 

“I will convince you of it,” said Forester, “if you 
will promise to forget all my other follies.” 

said Dr. Campbell. “Convince me first; 
and then it will be time enough to make such a desperate 
promise.” 

Flora was rather surprised when our once cynical 
hero begged the favour of her hand, and led her to dance 
a reel. M. Pasgrave would have been in ecstasy if he 
had seen his pupil’s performance. 

“And now, my dear Forester,” said Dr. Campbell, 
as his ward returned to claim his promise of a general 


0 


128 MORAL TALES. 

amnesty, “ if you do not turn out a coxcomb, if you do 
not ^mistake reverse of wrong for right,’ you will in- 
fallibly be a very great man. Give me a pupil who can 
cure himself of any one foible, and I have hopes of him. 
What hopes must I have of him who has cured him- 
self of so many !” 


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THE 


PRUSSIAN VASi;. 


^REDBRICK the Second, Kingj^of Prussia, after his con- 
quest of Saxony, transported, it is said,* by force, several 
manufacturers from Dresden to Berlin, where he was 
very desirous of establishing the manufacture of china. 
These unfortunate people, separated from their friends, 
iheir home, and their native country, were compelled to 
continue their labours for the profit and for the glory of 
their conqueror. Among the number of those sufferers 
was Sophia Mansfeld. She was young, handsome, and 
possessed considerable talents. Several pieces of porce- 
lain of her design and modelling were shown to Freder- 
ick when he visited the manufactory at Meissen, in 
Saxony ; and their taste and workmanship appeared to 
him so exquisite, that he determined to transport the 
artist to his capital. But from the time of her arrival at 
Berlin, Sophia Mansfeld’s genius seemed to forsake her. 
It was her business to sketch designs, and to paint them 
on the porcelain; but either she could not or would not 
execute these with her former elegance : the figures 
were awkward and spiritless ; and it was in vain that 
the overseer of the works attempted to rouse her to ex- 
ertion : she would sit for hours, with her pencil in her 
hand, in a sort of revery. It was melancholy to see her. 
The overseer had compassion upon her; but his com- 
passion was not so great as his dread of the king’s dis- 
pleasure ; and he at length declared, that the next time 
Frederick visited the works he must complain of her 
obstinate idleness. 

The monarch was expected in a few days ; for, in the 
midst of his various occupations, Frederick, who was at 

♦ Vide Wraxall’s Memoirs of the Court of Berlin; 

131 


132 


MORAL TALES. 


this time extremely intent upon the establishment of the 
porcelain manufactory at Berlin, found leisure frequently 
to inspect it in person. The king, however, was pre- 
vented from coming at the appointed hour by a review 
at Potsdam. His majesty had formed the singular pro- 
ject of embodying, and training to the science of arms, 
the Jews in his dominions.*' They were rather awk- 
ward in learning the manual exercise; and the Jewish 
review, though it afforded infinite amusement to the 
spectators, put Frederick so much out of humour, that, 
as soon as it was over, he rode to his palace at Sans Souci, 
and shut himself up for the remainder of the morning. 
The preceding evening an English traveller, who had 
passed some time at Pari^ with the Count de Lauragais, 
in trying experiments upon porcelain clays, and who 
had received much instruction on the subject from Mr. 
Wedgewood, of Etruria, had been presented to the king, 
and his majesty had invited him to be present at a trial 
of some new process of importance, which was to be 
made this morning at his manufactory. The English 
traveller, who was more intent upon his countryman 
Mr. Wedgewood’s fame than upon the martial ma- 
noeuvres of the Jews, proceeded, as soon as the review 
was finished, to exhibit his English specimens to a party 
of gentlemen who had appointed to meet him at the 
china-works at Berlin. 

Of this party was a young man of the name of Augus- 
tus Laniska, who was at this time scarcely seventeen 
years old. He was a Pole by birth — a Prussian by 
education. He had been bred up at the military school 
at Potsdam, and being distinguished by Frederick as a 
boy of high spirit and capacity, he was early inspired 
with enthusiastic admiration of this monarch. His ad- 
miration, however, was neither blind nor servile. He 
saw Frederick’s faults as well as his great qualities; and 
he often expressed himself with more openness and 
warmth upon this subject than prudence could justify. 
He had conversed with unusual freedom about Fre- 


* Wraxall’s Memoirs of the Court ot Berlin, &c. 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


133 


derick’s character with our English traveller; and while 
he was zealous to display every proof of the king’s great- 
ness of mind, he was sometimes forced to acknowledge 
that “there are disadvantages in living under the power 
of a despotic sovereign,” 

“ A despotic sovereign ! You will not then call your 
Frederick a despot?” whispered the English traveller to 
the young Pole, as they entered the china- works at Ber- 
lin. “ This is a promising manufactory, no doubt,” con- 
tinued he; “and Dresden china will probably soon be 
called Berlin china, by which the world in general will 
certainly be much benefited. But in the meantime look 
around you, and read your monarch’s history in the eyes 
of those prisoners of war — for such I must call these 
expatriated manufacturers.” 

There were indeed many countenances in which great 
dejection was visible. “ Look at that picture of melan- 
choly,” resumed the Englishman, pointing to the figure 
of Sophia Mansfeld ; “ observe even now, while the 
overseer is standing near her, how reluctantly she 
' works ! ’Tis the way with all slaves. Our English 
manufacturers (I wish you could see them) work in 
quite another manner — for they are free — ” 

“And are free men, or free women, never sick?” 
said Laniska; “or do you Englishman blame your' 
king whenever any of his sjibjects turn pale? The 
woman at whom you are now looking is evidently ill. 

I will inquire from the overseer what is the matter with 
her.” 

Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him 
in German several questions, to which he received 
answers that he did not translate to the English 
traveller; he was unwilling that any thing unfavour- 
able to the cause of his sovereign should appear; and, 
returning to his companion, he changed the conversa- 
tion. When all the company were occupied round the 
furnaces, attending to the Englishman’s experiments, 
Laniska went back to the apartment where Sophia 
Mansfeld was at work. “My good girl,” 'said he to 
her, “ what is the matter with you? The overseer tells 


134 


MORAL TALES. 


me that since you came here you have done nothing 
that is worth looking at; yet this charming piece’’ 
(pointing to a bowl of her painting, which had been 
brought from Saxony) is of your design, is not it?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Sophia, “I painted it — to my 
sorrow. If the king had never seen or liked it, I should 
now be — ” The recollection of her home, which at 
this instant rushed full upon her mind, overpowered 
her, and she paused. 

“You would now be in Saxony,” resumed Laniska; 

but forget Saxony, and you will be happy at Berlin.” 

“ I cannot forget Saxony, sir,” answered the young 
woman, with modest firmness; I cannot forget a father 
and mother whom I love, who are old and infirm, and 
who depended on me for their support. I cannot for- 
get every thing — every body that 1 have ever loved : I 
wish I could.” 

“ Sir,” whispered a Prussian workman who stood 
by; “sir, she has a lover in Saxony, to whom she was 
just going to be married, when she was carried off 
from her cottage, and brought hither.” 

“ Cannot her lover follow her?” said Laniska. 

“ He is in Berlin, in concealment,” replied the 
workman, in a whisper; “you won’t betray him, I am 
sure.” 

“ Not I,” said Laniska ; “ I never betrayed any one, 
and I never, shall — much less the unfortunate. But 
why is her lover in concealment?” 

“ Because it is the king’s pleasure,” replied the Prus- 
sian, “ that she should no longer consider him as her 
\over. > You know, sir, several of these Saxon women 
nave been compelled, since their arrival at Berlin, to 
marry Prussians. Sophia Mansfeld has fallen to the lot 
of a Prussian soldier, who swears that if she delays an- 
other month to marry him, he will complain to the 
king of her obstinacy. Our overseer, loo, threatens to 
complain of her idleness. She is ruined if she go on in 
this way : we tell her so ; but she seems to have lost 
all sense; for she sits as she does now, like one stupi- 
fied, half the day, let us say what we will to her. We 


THE PRUSSIAX VASE. 135 

pity her ; but the king knows best : the king must be 
obeyed.’’ 

“ Slave !” exclaimed Laniska, bursting into a sudden 
transport of indignation: “slave! you are fit to live 
only under a tyrant. The king knows best! the king 
must be obeyed ! What! when his commands are con- 
trary to reason, to justice, to humanity!” Laniska 
stopped short, but not before the high tone of his voice, 
and the boldness of the words he uttered, had astonished 
and dismayed all present, — all except Sophia Mansfeld : 
her whole countenance became suddenly illuminated; 
she started up, rushed forward, threw herself at the 
feet of Laniska, and exclaimed, “Save me! you can 
save rne! you have courage; and you are a powerful 
lord, and you can speak to the king. Save me from this 
detested marriage!” 

The party of gentleman who had been in the next 
chamber now entered the room, curious to know what 
had drawn thither such a crowd of workmen. On 
seeing them enter, Sophia, recollecting herself, rose, 
and returned to her work quietly ; while Laniska, much 
agitated, seized hold of the Englishman’s arm, and 
hurried out of the manufactory. 

You are right, you are right,” cried he; “ Frederick 
is a tyrant! But how can I save his victim?” 

“ Not by violence, my Augustus; not by violence!” 
replied a young man of the name of Albert, who fol 
lowed Laniska, anxious to restrain the impetuosity of 
his friend’s temper, with vidiich he was well ac- 
quainted. “ By imprudence,” said he, “ you will but 
expose yourself to danger; you will save, you will 
serve no one.” 

“ Tame prudence will neither save nor serve any one, 
however it may prevent its possessor , from exposing 
himself to danger,” retorted Laniska, casting upon 
Albert a look of contemptuous reproach. “ Prudence 
be your virtue, — courage mine.” 

“ Are they incompatible?” said Albert, calmly. 

“I know not,” replied Laniska; “but this I know, 
that I am in no humour to reason that point, or any 


130 


MORAL TALES. 


Ollier, according to all those cursed forms of logic 
which, I believe, you love better than any thing else.” 

“ Not better than I love you, as I prove by allowing 
you to curse them as much and as often as you think 
proper,” replied Albert, with a smile, which could not, 
however, force one from his angry friend. 

“You are right to practise logic and rhetoric,” re- 
sumed Laniska, “as much and as often as you can, 
since in your profession you are to make your bread 
by your tongue and your pen. I am a soldier, or soon 
to be a soldier, and have other arms and other feelings.” 

“ I will not dispute the superiority of your arms,” 
replied Albert ; “ I will only beg of you to remember, 
that mine will be at your service whenever you want 
or wish for them.” 

This temperate and friendly reply entirely calmed 
Laniska. “ What would become of Augustus Laniska,” 
said he, giving Albert his hand, “if he had not such a 
friend as you are ! My mother may well say this, as 
she does ten times a day ; but now take it in your sober 
manner, what can we do for this poor woman? — for 
something must be done.” 

After some consideration, Albert and Laniska deter- 
mined to draw up a petition for Sophia, and to present 
it to the king, who was known to pay ready and minute 
attention to every application made to him in writing, 
even by the meanest of his subjects. The petition was 
presented, and an answer anxiously expected. Frede- 
rick, when at Potsdam, often honoured the Countess 
Laniska with a visit. She was a woman of considera- 
ble information and literature, — acquirements not com- 
mon among the Polish or Prussian ladies ; and the king 
distinguished the countess by his approbation, in order 
to excite some, emulation among his female subjects. 
She held a sort of conversazione at her house, which 
was frequented by all foreigners of distinction, and 
especially by some of the French literati, who were at 
this time at Frederick’s court. 

One evening — it w^as a few days after Sophia Mans- 
feld’s petition had been presented — the king was at the 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


137 


Countess Laniska’s, and the company were conversing 
upon some literary subject, when Frederick, who had 
been unusually silent, suddenly turned to the English 
traveller, who was one of the company, and asked him 
whether his countryman Mr. Wedgewood had not 
made a beautiful imitation of the Barberini, or Port- 
land vase. 

The Englishman replied, that the imitation was so 
exquisite as scarcely to be known by the best judges 
from the original; and he went on with much eager- 
ness to give a description of the vase, that he might 
afterward, for the honour of his country, repeat some 
lines written upon the subject by a great English 
poet.* Frederick was himself a poet and a judge of 
poetry ; he listened to the lines with attention ; and, as 
soon as the Englishman had finished speaking, he ex- 
claimed, I will write a description of the Prussian 
vase myself.’’ 

“The Prussian vase!” said the English traveller: 
“ I hope I may have the honour of seeing it before I 
leave Berlin.” 

“ If you prolong your stay another month, your 
curiosity will probably be gratified,” replied Frederick. 
“ The Prusian vase is not yet in being ; but I have this 
day determined to offer a reward that I know will pro- 
duce a vase worthy of Prussia. Those who have the 
command of motives, and know their power, have also 
the command of all that the arts, or what is called a 

f enius for the arts, can produce. The human mind and 
uman fingers are much the same in Italy, in England, 
and in Prussia. Then, why should not we have a 
Prussian as well as a Wedgewood’s, or a Barberini 
vase? We shall see. I do not understand mon metier 
de rot, if I cannot call forth talents where I know them 
to exist. There is,” continued the king, fixing his eyes 
full upon Laniska, “ there is in my porcelain manu- 
factory at Berlin a woman of considerable talents, who 


♦ Darwin. — See his description of the Barberini vase in the Bo« ' 
tanic Garden. We hope our readers will pardon this anachronism. 

m2 » 


138 


MORAL TALES. 


is extremely anxious to return along with some lover 
of hers to Saxony. . Like all other prisoners of war, she 
must purchase her liberty from the conqueror ; and if 
she cannot pay her ransom in gold, let her pay it by 
her talents. I do not give premiums to idleness or ol^ 
stinacy. The king must be obeyed, whether he knows 
how to command or not : let all the world, who are able 
to Judge, decided Frederick, as soon as he had finished 
this speech, which he pronounced in a peremptory 
tone, left the room ; and Laniska’s friends, who per- 
ceived that the imprudent words he had uttered in Ber- 
lin had reached the king’s ear, gave the young man up 
for lost. To their surprise, however, the king took no 
further notice of what had happened, but received Lan- 
iska the next day at Sans Souci with all his usual 
kindness. Laniska, who was of an open, generous 
temper, was touched by this conduct; and, throwing 
himself at Frederick’s feet, he exclaimed — 

My king ! forgive me, if in a moment of indignation 
I called you a tyrant.” 

My friend, you are yet a child, and I let children 
and fools speak of me as they please,” replied Frede- 
rick. When you are an older man you will judge 
more wisely, or, at least, you will speak with more dis- 
cretion within twenty miles of a tyrant’s palace. Here 
is my answer to your Sophia Mansfeld’s petition,” 
added he, giving Laniska the paper which Albert had 
drawn up,; at the bottom of which was written, in the 
king’s own hand, these words : 

“ I will permit the artist who shall produce, before 
this day month, the most beautiful vase of Berlin china, 
to marry or not to marry whoever he or she shall think 
proper, and to return to Saxony with all imaginable 
expedition. If the successful artist choose to remain at 
Berlin, I will add a reward of 500 crowms. The artist’s 
name shall be inscribed on the vase, which shall be 
called the Prussian vase.” No sooner had Sophia 
Mansfeld read these words than she seemed animated 
with new life and energy. She was likely to have 
many competitors ; for the moment the king’s intentions 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


139 


'were made known in the manufactory, all hands and 
heads were at work. Some were excited by the hope 
of regaining their liberty ; others stimulated by the 
mention of 500 crowns ; and some were fired with am- 
bition to have their name inscribed on the Prussian 
vase. But none had so strong a motive for exertion as 
Sophia. She was indefatigable. The competitors con- 
sulted the persons whom they believed to have the best 
taste in Berlin and Potsdam. Sophia’s designs were 
shown as soon as they were sketched to the Countess 
Laniska, whose advice was of material use to her. 

At length the day which was to decide her fate 
arrived. The vases were all ranged, by the king’s order, 
in his gallery of paintings at Sans Souci; and in the 
evening, when Frederick had finished the business of 
the day, he went thither to examine them. Laniska 
and some others were permitted to accompany him; no 
one spoke while Frederick was comparing the works 
of the different competitors. 

‘‘ Let this be the Prussian vase,” said the king. It 
was Sophia Mansfeld’s. Laniska just staid to show 
her name, which was written underneath the foot of the 
vase, and then he hurried away to communicate the 
happy news to Sophia, who was waiting with her lover 
at the house of the Countess Laniska in Potsdam, im- 
patient to hear her fate. She heard it with inexpres- 
sible joy; and Laniska’s generous heart sympathized 
in her happiness. It was settled that she should the 
next morning be married to her lover, and return with 
him to her father and mother in Saxony. The happy 
couple were just taking leave of the young count and 
his mother, when they were alarmed by the sound of 
many voices on the great staircase. Some persons 
seemed to be disputing with the countess’s servants 
for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the 
cause of the disturbance. The hall was filled with 
soldiers. 

** Are you the young Count Laniska?” said an officer 
to him the moment he appeared. 

“ I am the young Count Laniska,” replied he, in a 


140 


MORAL TALES. 


firm tone. ''What do you want with me? and why 
this disturbance in ray mother’s house at this unseasona- 
ble hour?” 

" We come here by the king’s order,” replied the 
soldier. " Is not there in this house a woman of the 
name of Sophia Mansfeld ?” 

" Yes,” replied Laniska: " what do you want with 
her?” 

“ She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, 
count,” replied the soldier. 

It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The 
soldiers could give none ; they knew nothing, but that 
their orders were to convey Sophia Mansfeld immediately 
to Meissen in Saxony, and to lodge Count Laniska in the 
castle of Spandau, a state prison. 

"I must know my crime before I submit to punish- 
ment,” cried Laniska, in a passionate voice ; but he re- 
strained the natural violence of his temper on seeing his 
mother appear , and, at her request, yielded himself up 
a prisoner without resistance and without a murmur. 
" 1 depend on your innocence, my son, and on the justice 
of the king,” said the countess ; and she took leave of 
him without shedding a tear. The next day, even before 
the king arrived at Potsdam, she went to the palace, de- 
termined to wait there till she could see him, that she 
might hear from his own lips the cause of her son’s im- 
prisonment. She waited a considerable time ; for, with- 
out alighting from horseback, Frederick proceeded to the 
parade, where he was occupied for some hours ; at 
length he alighted, and the first person he saw, on enter- 
ing his palace, was the Countess Laniska. 

“ I am willing to believe, madam,” said he, “that you 
have no share in your son’s folly and ingratitude.” 

'' My son is, I hope, incapable of ingratitude, sir,” 
answered the countess, with an air of placid dignity. “I 
am well aware that he may have been guilty of great 
imprudence.” 

“ At six o’clock this evening let me see you, madam,” 
replied the king, ''at Sans Souci,in the gallery of paint- 
ings and you shall know of what your son is accused.” 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


141 


At the appointed hour she was in the gallery of paint- 
ings at Sans Souci. No one was there. She wailed 
quietly for some time, then walked up and down the gal- 
lery with extreme impatience and agitation; at last she 
heard the king’s voice and his step ; the door opened, 
and Frederick appeared. It was an awful moment to 
the mother of Laniska. She stood in silent expectation. 

I see madam,” said the king, after fixing his pene- 
trating eye for some moments on her countenance, ‘‘ I 
see that you are, as 1 believed you to be, wholly igno- 
rant of your son’s folly.” As he spoke Frederick put 
his hands upon the vase made by Sophia Mansfeld, which 
was placed on a small stand in the middle of the gallery. 
The countess, absorbed by her own reflections, had not 
noticed it. 

“ You have seen this vase before,” said the king ; “ and 
you have probably seen the lines which are inscribed on 
the foot of it?” 

‘‘Yes,” said the countess; “they are my son’s 
writing.” 

“ And they are written by his own hand,” said the 
king. 

“They are. The poor Saxon woman who draws so 
admirably cannot write ; and my son wrote the inscrip- 
tion for her.” 

“ The lines are in a high strain of panegyric,*^ said 
the king; and he laid a severe emphasis on the word 
panegyric. 

“ Whatever may be my son’s faults,” said the countess, 
“ your majesty cannot suspect him of being a base flat- 
terer. Scarcely a month has elapsed since his unguarded 
openness exposed him to your displeasure. Your ma- 
jesty’s magnanimity in pardoning his imprudent expres- 
sions convinced him at once of his error in having used 
them; and in the fit of enthusiasm with which your 
kindness upon that occasion inspired him, he, who is by 
no means a poet by profession, composed the two lines 
of panegyric which seem to have given your majesty 
offence; but which I should never have conceived could 
be the cause of his imprisonment.” 


142 


MORAL TALES. 


“You plead like a mother, madam,” said the king; 
but you reason like a woman. Have I ever said that 
your son was imprisoned for having written two lines of 
flattery ? No, madam : I know how to smile both at 
flattery and satire, when they are undisguised ; but there 
is a degree of baseness which I cannot so easily pardon. 
Be patient, madam; I will listen to all you can say in 
your son^s defence, when you have read this inscription. 
But, before you read it, understand that I was upon the 
point of sending this vase to Paris. I had actually given 
orders to the man who was packing up that case (point- 
ing to a half-packed case of porcelain) to put up the 
Prussian vase as a present for a Prussian bel esprit of 
your acquaintance. The man showed me the inscrip- 
tion at the bottom of the vase. I read the flattering 
lines with pleasure, and thought them — as people usually 
think flattering lines made on themselves — excellent. I 
was even fool enough immediately to consider how I 
could reward the author, when my friend, the packer, in- 
terrupted the course of my thoughts by observing, with 
some exclamation of astonishment, that the blue colour 
of the vase came off in one spot where he had been rub- 
bing it. I looked and saw that part of the inscription of 
the bottom of the vase had been covered over with blue 
paint. At first sight, I read the words, ^ On the charac- 
ter of Frederick the Great;’ — the blue paint had concealed 
the next word, which is now, madam, sufficiently legi- 
ble.” The word to which the king pointed was — tyrant. 
“ Those flattering lines, madam, you comprehend, were 
written — ‘ On the character of Frederick the great tyrant!^ 

“I shall spare you, madam, all the reflections I have 
made on this occasion. Tyrant as I am, I shall not pun- 
ish the innocent mother lor the follies of her son. I 
shall be at your house, along with the rest of your friends, 
on Tuesday evening.” 

The unhappy mother of Laniska withdrew from the 
presence of the king without attempting any reply. 
Her son’s conduct admitted, she thought, of no apology, 
if it were really true that he had written the words to 
which his name was signed. Of this she doubled ; but 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


143 


ner consternation was at first so great that she had not 
the power to think. A general belief remained in her 
mind of her son’s innocence ; but then a number of his 
imprudent words and actions came across her memory : 
the inscription was, apparently, in his own handwriting. 
The conversation which had passed in the porcelain 
manufactory at Berlin corroborated the idea expressed 
in this inscription. The countess, on her return home, 
related the circumstances with as much composure as 
she could to Albert, who was wailing to hear the result 
of her interview with the king. Albert heard her rela- 
tion with astonishment; he could not believe in his 
friend’s guilt, though he saw no means of proving his in- 
nocence. He did not, however, waste his time in idle 
conjectures, or more idle lamentations ; he went imme- 
diately to the man who was employed to pack up the 
vase ; and after questioning him with great care, he went 
to Berlin, to the porcelain manufactory, and inquired 
whether any person was present when Laniska wrote 
the inscription for Sophia Mansfeld. After Albert had 
collected all the information that could be obtained, his 
persuasion of Laniska’s innocence was confirmed. 

On Tuesday Frederick had promised to come to the 
countess’s conversazione. The company, previous to 
his majesty’s arrival, were all assembled round the sofa 
on which she was seated, and they were eagerly talking 
over Laniska’s affair. What a blessing it is,’’ cried the 
English traveller, “to live in a country where no man 
can be imprisoned without knowing of what he is ac- 
cused ! What a blessing it is. to live under a government 
where no man can be condemned without trial, and 
where his trial must be carried on in open day, in the 
face of his country, his peers, his equals!” — The Eng- 
lishman was in the midst of a warm eulogium upon the 
British mode of trial by jury, when Frederick entered the 
room, as it was his custom, without being announced: 
and the company were so intently listening to our travel- 
ler, they did not perceive that the king was one of his 
auditors. “Would to heaven!” cried the Countess 
Laniska, when the Englishman paused — “ would to 


144 


MORAL TALES. 


heaven my son could have the advantage of such a 
trial !” 

“And would to heaven,’’ exclaimed Albert, “that I 
might plead his cause !” 

“ On one condition,” said Frederick ; and at the sound 
of his voice every one started — “ on one condition, 
young man, your prayer shall be granted. You shall 
plead your friend’s cause upon condition that, if you do 
not convince his judges of his innocence you shall share 
his punishment. His punishment will be a twelvemonth’s 
imprisonment in the castle of Spandau ; and yours the 
same, if you fail to establish your cause and his. Next 
to the folly of being imprudent ourselves, that of choos- 
ing imprudent friends is the most dangerous. Laniska 
shall be tried by his equals ; and since twelve is the 
golden, harmonic, divine number for which justice has 
a blind predilection, let him have twelve judges, and call 
them, if you please, a jury. But I will name my coun- 
sel, and you counsel for Laniska. You know the con- 
ditions — do you accept of them?” 

“ Willingly, sire !” cried Albert, joyfully. “ You will 
permit me to have access to the prisoner in the castle of 
Spandau 

“ That is a new condition ; but I grant it. The gov- 
ernor shall have orders to admit you to see and converse 
with his prisoner for two hours ; but if, after that con- 
versation, your opinion of your friend should change, 
you will not blame me if I hold you to your word.” 

Albert declared that he desired no more: and the 
Countes# Laniska, and all who were present, joined in 
praising Frederick’s clemency and Albert’s generosity. 
The imprisonment of Laniska had been much talked of 
not only in public companies at Potsdam and at Berlin, 
but, what affected Frederick much more nearly, it 
had become the subject of conversation among the 
literati in his own palace at Sans Souci. An English 
traveller of some reputation in the literary world also 
knew the circumstances, and was interested in the fate 
of the young count. Frederick seems to have had a 
strong desire to be represented in an amiable point of 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


146 


view by writers who, he believed, could transmit his 
fame to posterity. Careless of what might be said of 
him, he was anxious that nothing should be printed 
derogatory to his reputation. Whether the desire to give 
to foreigners a striking proof of his magnanimity, or 
whether his regard for the young count, and his friend- 
ship for his mother, were his motives in granting to 
Laniska this trial by jury, cannot and need not be deter- 
mined. Unmixed virtue is not to be expected from kings 
more than from common men. 

After his visit to the prisoner in the castle of Span- 
dau, Albert felt no inclination to recede from the agree- 
ment into which he had entered ; but Laniska was much 
alarmed when he was told of what had passed. “ Oh ! 
my generous friend!’^ exclaimed the young count, 

why did you accept of the conditions offered to you by 
tne king ? You may — I am sure you do — believe in my 
innocence; but you will never be able to prove it. You 
will soon be involved in my disgrace.” 

I shall think it no disgrace,” replied Albert, ^‘'to be 
the fellow-prisoner of an innocent friend.” 

Do not you remember,’ said Laniska, “ that as we 
were returning from Berlin, after my unlucky visit to 
the porcelain manufactory, you promised me, that 
whenever I should be in want of youV weapons they 
should be at my service? I little thought that I should 
so soon be in such need of them. Farewell ; I pray for 
their success.” 

On the day appointed for the trial of Laniska, crowds 
of people of all ranks flocked to hear the proceedings. 
A spacious building in Potsdam, intended for a barrack, 
was, upon this occasion converted into a hall of justice; 
a temporary gallery was erected for the accommodation 
of the audience ; and a platform was raised in the centre 
of the hall, wnere the judge’s chair was placed ; on the 
right hand of the chair a space was railed in for the re- 
ception of the twelve young gentlemen who were to act 
as jurors; on the left another space was railed in for 
spectators. In the front there was a large table, on 
each side of which were benches fur the counsel and wil- 
N 13 


146 


MORAL TALES. 


nesses: those for the crown on the right-hand; those 
for the prisoner on the left. Every thing had, by the 
king’s orders, been prepared in this manner, according 
to the English custom. 

The countess Laniska now entered the court, with a 
few friends who had not yet forsaken her. They took 
their seats at the lower end of the gallery ; and as every 
eye turned upon the mother, who waited to hear the 
trial of her son, an awful silence prevailed. This lasted 
but for a few moments; it was succeeded by a general 
whispering among the crowds both in the hall and in 
the gallery. Each individual gave his opinion con- 
cerning the event of the trial : some declared that the 
circumstances which must appear against Laniska 
were so strong that it was madness in Albert to un- 
dertake his defence ; others expressed great admira- 
tion of Albert’s intrepid confidence in himself and his 
friend. Many studied the countenance of the king, 
to discover what his wishes might be; and a thousand 
idle conjectures were formed from his most insignificant 
movements. 

At length, the temporary judge having taken his seat, 
twelve young gentlemen were chosen from the most re- 
spectable families in Potsdam, to act as jurors. The 
prisoner was summoned to answer to the charges 
brought against him, in the name of Frederick the Se- 
cond, king of Prussia. Laniska appeared, guarded by 
two officers : he walked up to the steps of the platform 
with an air of dignity, which seemed expressive of con- 
scious innocence ; but his countenance betrayed invo- 
luntary marks of emotion, too strong for him to com- 
mand, when on raising his eyes he beheld his friend 
Albert, who stood full in his view. Albert maintained 
an immoveable composure of countenance. The pri- 
soner was now asked whether he had any objections to 
make to any of the twelve persons who had been se- 
lected to judge his cause. He made none. They pro- 
ceeded to take an oath, ‘^that, in their decision, they 
would suffer no motives to influence them but a sense 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 147 

A 

of truth and justice.’’ The judge then rose, and ad- 
dressing himself to the jury, said ; — 

“ Gentlemen, 

^ You are here by the king’s order, to form your opi- 
nions concerning the guilt or innocence of the prisoner, 
commonly known by the name of Count Augustus La- 
niska. You will learn the nature and circumstances of 
the accusation against him from Mr. Warendorff, the 
gentleman on my right hand, who in this cause, has the 
honour of being counsel for his majesty. You will hear 
from the gentleman on my left, Albert Altenburg, all 
that can be said in behalf of the prisoner, for whom he 
voluntarily offers himself as counsel. After having lis- 
tened to the arguments that may be adduced, and to the 
witnesses that shall be examined on each side, you are, 
gentlemen, according to the tenor of the oath which has 
just been administered to you, to decide, without regard 
to any consideration but truth and justice. Your opinion 
is to be delivered to me by the eldest among you, and it 
is to be expressed in one or other of these phrases — 
guilty, or not guilty. 

“ When I shall have heard your decision, I am, in his 
majesty’s name, to pronounce sentence accordingly. If 
the prisoner be judged by you not guilty, I am to an- 
nounce to him that he is thenceforward at liberty, and 
that no stain affixes to his honour from the accusation 
that has been preferred against him, or from his late 
imprisonment, or from this public trial. If, on the 
contrary, your judgment shall be that the prisoner is 
guilty, I am to remand him to the castle of Spandau, 
where he is to remain confined twelve months from this 
day. To the same punishment I am also to condemn 
Albert Altenburg, if he fail to establish in your minds 
the innocence of the Count Laniska. It is upon this 
condition that he is permitted to plead the cause of his 
friend. 

Gentlemen, you are called upon to give impartial 
attention in this cause, by your duty to your king and 
to your country.” 

As soon as the judge, after making this short address 


148 


MORAL TALES. 


to the jury, had seated himself, Mr. Warendorff, coun- 
sel for the crown, rose, and spoke in the following man- 
ner : — 

“My lord, and gentlemen of the jury ; 

“ It is with inexpressible concern that I find myself 
called upon to plead in this cause. To be the accuser 
of any man is an invidious task: to be the accuser of 
such a man as I once thought — as you perhaps still 
think — the young Count Laniska, must, to a person of 
generous feelings, be in a high degree difficult and dis- 
tressing. 1 do not pretend to more generosity or deli- 
cacy of sentiment than others; but 1 beg any of you, 
gentlemen, to imagine yourselves for a moment in my 
place, and to conceive what must be my sensations as a 
man and as an advocate. I am not ignorant how po- 
pular the name of Augustus Laniska is, both in Berlin 
and Potsdam. I am not ignorant that the young count 
has been in the habit of living among you, gentlemen, 
on terms of familiarity, friendship, and confidence ; nor 
can I doubt that the graceful, manly manner and open 
deportment for which he is so eminently distinguished 
must have strongly prepossessed you in his favour. I 
am not ignorant that 1 have to plead against him before 
his friends, in the presence of his mother,^ — a mother 
respected even in a higher degree than her son is be- 
loved ; respected for her feminine virtues — for her more 
than feminine endowments ; who, had she no other 
claim upon your hearts, must, by the unfortunate 
situation in which she now appears, command your 
sympathy. 

“ You must all of you feel, likewise, strongly prepos- 
sessed in favour of that noble-minded youth who has 
undertaken to defend the prisoner’s cause at the hazard 
of sharing his punishment. I respect the’general cha- 
racter of Albert Altenberg; I admire his abilities; I ap- 
plaud him for standing forward in defence of his friend; 
I pitythim because he has a friend for whom, I fear, 
' even he will find it impossible to establish any plausi- 
ble defence. But the idea that he is acting handsome- 
ly, and that he has the sympathy of numbers in his 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


149 


favour, will doubtless support the young advocate in 
his arduous task. He appears in this court in strik- 
ing character, as counsel, disinterested counsel, for his 
friend. 

“ Gentlemen, I also appear in this court as counsel, 
disinterested counsel, for a friend. Yes, gentlemen, I 
am permitted to call Frederick the Great, my friend. 
He is not, as other great monarchs have been, ambi- 
tious 10 raise himself above the sphere of humanity; he 
does not desire to be addressed in the fulsome strains 
either of courtly or of poetical adulation ; he wishes not 
to be worshipped as a god, but to be respected as a 
man.* It is his desire to have friends that shall be 
faithful, or subjects that shall be obedient. Happy his 
obedient subjects — they are secure of his protection ; 
happy, thrice happy, his faithful friends — they are ho- 
noured with his favour and his confidence. It was in 
the power of the prisoner now before you to have been 
in this enviable class. You all of you know that the 
Countess Laniska, his mother, has for years been ho- 
noured by the friendship of her sovereign ; even the 
conduct of her son has not been able to shake his confi- 
dence in her. A Pole by birth, Augustus Laniska was 
educated among the first of the Prussian nobility at the 
military academy at Potsdam, — that nursery of heroes. 
From such an education, from the son of such a mo- 
ther, honourable sentiments and honourable conduct 
were to be expected. Most confidently were they ex- 
pected by his king, who distinguished the young count, 
as you all know, even in his boyish days. The count 
is said to be of a temper naturally impetuous ; the er- 
rors into which such a temper too publicly betrayed him 
were pardoned by the indulgence of his king. I am 
compelled to recall one recent instance of the truth of 
these assertions, as it is immediately connected with the 
present cause.” 

Here Mr. Warendorflf related all that had passed at 
the porcelain manufactory at Berlin, and the king’s sub 


♦ iF.schylus. 
N '2 


13 * 


150 


MORAL TALES. 


sequent coYiduct towards Count Laniska. On the mag 
nanimily of his majesty, .the eloquent counsel expatiat- 
ed for a considerable time ; but the applauses with which 
this part of his oration was received by a party in the 
gallery who were seated near the king were so loud as 
almost to drown the voice of the orator, and effectual- 
ly to distract the attention of those employed to take 
down his words. When he could again be heard dis- 
tinctly, he resumed as follows : 

“ 1 am not surprised at these testimonies of admira- 
tion which burst from the warm hearts of his majesty’s 
subjects j I am only surprised that a heart could be found 
in his dominions on whom such magnanimity could 
make no impression. I am shocked, I am grieved, 
when I find such a heart in the person of Count Laniska. 
Can it be believed, that in the course of one short 
month after this generous pardon, that young nobleman 
proved himself the basest of traitors — a traitor to the 
king who was his friend and benefactor? — Daring no 
longer openly to attack, he attempted secretly to wound 
the fame of his sovereign. You all of you know what 
a degree of liberty, even licence, Frederick the Great 
permits to that species of satirical wit with which the 
populace delight to ridicule their rulers. At this instant 
there are various anonymous pasquinades on the gar- 
den gates at Sans Souci, which would have provoked 
the resentment — the fatal resentment — of any other mo- 
narch upon earth. It cannot be doubted that the au- 
thors of these things could easily be discovered, if the 
king condescended to make any inquiries concerning 
them: it connot be doubted that the king has power to 
punish the offenders 5 yet they remain untouched, per- 
haps unknown. Our sovereign is not capable of feel- 
ing the petty emotions of vulgar spleen or resentment; 
but he could not be insensible to the treacherous ingra- 
titude of one whom he imagined to have been attached 
to him by every tie of kindness and of duty. That the 
(^ount Laniska should choose the instant when the king 
was showing him unusual favour, to make that favour 
an instrument of his base malice, is scarcely credible. 


TPIE PRUSSIAN VASE. . lol 

Yet, Prussians, incredible as it sounds to us, it is true. 
Here are ftiy proofs j here are my witnesses.’’ 

Mr. Warendorff, at this instant, uncovered the Prus- 
sian vase, and then pointed to a Jew, and to the master 
of the porcelain manufactory, who stood beside him, 
ready to give their evidence. We omit that part of Mr. 
Warendorff’s speech which contained the facts that have 
been already related. The Prussian vase was handed to 
the jury : tlie verses in praise of Frederick the Great 
were read, and the word tyrant was seen, afterward, 
with the utmost surprise. In the midst of the general 
indignation, Mr. Warendorff called upon the Jew to come 
forward and give his evidence. This Jew was an old 
man, and there was something remarkable in his looks. 
His head was still ; his neck was stiff ; but his eyes 
moved with incessant celerity from side to side, and he 
seemed uneasy at not being able to see what was pass- 
ing behind him : there was a certain firmness in his 
attitude; but his voice trembled when he attempted to 
speak. All these circumstances prepossessed Laniska’s 
friends against the Jew the moment he appeared ; and 
it was justly observed, that his having the misfortune 
to be a Jew was sufficient to prejudice many of the 
populace against him, even before a word he uttered 
reached their ears. But impartial spectators judged 
that the poor man was only terrified at being called upon 
to speak in so large an assembly. Solomon, for that 
was the name of the Jew, after havmg taken an oath 
upon the Talmud that he would speak nothing but the 
truth, made the following answers to the questions put 
to him by Mr. Warendorff: — 

Mr. Warendorff. “ Did you ever see this vase be- 
fore?” Solomon. ‘‘Yes.” 

Mr. Warendorff. “Where? when? — ^Tell all you 
know about it to the gentlemen of the jury.” 

Solomon. “ The first time I saw that vase was in the 
gallery of paintings at the king’s palace of Sans Souci; 
to the best of my recollection it was on the night of the 
first day ('f the month, about ten o’clock, or perhaps it 


152 


MORAL TALES. 


might be eleven : I wish to be exact; but I cannot be 
certain as to the hour precisely.” 

Mr. Warendorff. “ The exact hour is not of any com 
sequence : proceed. Tell us how you came to see this 
vase. Take your time to speak. We are in no hurry ; 
the truth will appear sooner or later.” 

Solomon. “ His majesty himself put the vase into my 
hands, and commanded me to pack it up, with some 
other china, which he was going to send as a present to 
a gentleman at Paris. I am something of a judge of 
china myself, being used to selling small peices of it up 
and down the town and country. So I was struck with 
the first sight of this beautiful vase ; I looked at it very 
carefully, and wiped away with rny handkerchief the 
dust which had settled on the white figures : here is the 
very handkerchief. I wiped the vase all over: but 
when 1 came to rub the bottom, I stopped to read the 
verses on the character of Fredenck the Great; and 
having read these I rubbed the Avhite letters quite clean: 
the ground on which they were written was blue. I 
found that some of the blue colour came off upon my 
handkerchief, which surprised me a good deal. Upon 
examining further, I perceived that the colour came off 
only in one spot, of about an inch long and half an inch 
broad. The king was at this time standing with his 
back to me, looking at a new picture which had just 
been hung up in the gallery; but hearing me make an 
exclamation, Frt//ter Mraham!’ I believe it was that 
I said,) his majesty turned around. ‘What is the 
matter with you, Solomon? You look wondrous wise,’ 
his majesty was pleased to say. ‘Why do you call on 
Father Abraham at this time of day ? Do you expect 
that he will help you to pack up that china? — hey, 
Solomon, my friend?’ I had no power to answer this 
question, for by this time, to my utter astonishment, I 
had discovered that on the spot where I had rubbed off 
the blue paint, there was a word written — the word was 
tyrant. ‘ On the character of Frederick, the great tyrant!^ 
said I to myself— ‘what can this meanP The king 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


1.33 


snatched the vase from my hands, read what 1 had read, 
saw the paint which had been rubbed off upon my 
handkerchief, and, without saying one word, left the 
gallery. — This is all I know about the matter.’^ 

The Jew bowed to the court, and Mr. Warendorff 
told him that, having closed his evidence, he might de- * 
part. But Albert rose to desire that the judge would 
order him to remain in court, as he purposed to exa- 
mine, or, according to the English term, to cross-exa- 
mine him further at a proper lime. The judge ordered 
the Jew to remain in court. The next witness called, 
on the part of the crown, was the master of the porce- 
lain manufactory of Berlin; to whom Mr. Warendorff 
put the following questions : — 

Q. “ Have you seen the verses which are inscribed 
on the foot of this vaseB^ ^ 

Answer. “ Yes, I have.” 

Q. “Do you recollect what words are written over 
the verses?” 

Answer. “I do : the words are — ^ On the character 
of Frederick, the great tyrant.’ ” 

Q. “ Do you know by whom those words and these 
verses are written ?” 

Answer. “ J believe that they were written by Count 
Augustus Laniska.” 

Q. “ How do you know? or why do you believe it?” 

Answer. “ I was present when Sophia Mansfeld, the 
woman by whom the vase was designed, told the count 
hat she did not know how to write, and that she would 
oe obliged to him if he would write the inscription him- 
self on it. The vase at this time had not been put into 
the furnace. It was in what we call biscuit. Thp 
■Count Laniska took a proper tool, and said that he 
would write the inscription as she desired. I saw him 
writing on the bottom of the vase for some minutes. I 
heard him afterward call to one of the workmen, and 
desire that he would put the vase into the furnace : the 
workman accordingly carried it into the next room to the 
furnace, as I believe.” 

Q. “ Did you see the inscription on the vase after i! 


154 


MORAL TALES. 


was taken out of the furnace? and was the word tyrant 
then on it?” 

Answer. I did not see the vase immediately upon 
its being taken out of the furnace; but I saw it about 
an hour afterward. At that time I read the inscription : 
the word tyrtint was not then visible on the vase ; the 
place where it now appears was blue. I carried it my- 
self, along with some others, to the king’s palace at 
Sans Souci. The night of the first day of this month 
his majesty sent for me, and showed me the word tyrant 
on the vase; I had never seen it there till then. It 
could not have been w'ritten after the china was baked ; 
it must have been written while the biscuit was soft; 
and it must have been covered over with the blue paint 
after the vase was taken out of the furnace. I believe 
the word was written by Count Laniska, because I saw 
nobody else write upon the vase but him; because the 
word exactly resembles the handwriting of the rest of 
the inscription; and because I, upon a former occasion, 
heard the count make use of that very word in speaking 
of Frederick the Great.” 

Here the master of the porcelain manufactory finished 
speaking, and was going, with Mr. Warendorff’s per- 
mission, to retire; but Albert signified his intention to 
cross-examine him also, and the judge commanded that 
he should remain in court. The next two witnesses 
who were produced and examined were the workman 
who carried the vase to the furnace, and the man whose 
business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace. 
Neither of these witnesses could write or read. The 
workman deposed, that he carried the Prussian vase, as 
he was desired, to the furnace; that no one touched it 
on the way thither. The man whose business it was 
to put the biscuit into the furnace swore that he put it 
along with several other vases into the furnace; that he 
attended the fire, and that no one touched any of them 
till they were baked and taken out by him. Here the" 
evidence for the prosecution closed. Mr. Warendorff 
observed that he should forbear to expatiate further 
upon the conduct of the prisoner; that he had been 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


155 


ordered by his sovereign to speak of him with all pos- 
sible moderation ; that he earnestly hoped the defence 
that should he made for Count Laniska might be satis- 
factory ; and that the mode of trial which had been 
granted to him by the king was a sufficient proof of the 
clemency of his majesty, and of his earnest desire to 
allow the prisoner every possible means of re-establish- 
ing his character in the eyes of the public. 

Albert now rose. The Count Laniska, who had ap- 
peared unmoved during Mr. WarendorfF’s oration, 
changed countenance the moment Albert rose in his de- 
fence; the Countess Laniska leaned forward over the 
rails of the gallery in breathless anxiety : there was no 
sound heard in the whole gallery, except the jingling of 
the chain of the king’s sword, with which he was playing. 

I shall not attempt, gentleman,” said Albert, to 
move your sympathy by a pathetic description of my 
own feelings as a man, and as an advocate. Whatever 
mine may be, it is my wish and my duty to repress 
them. I have need of that calm possession of my un- 
derstanding which will be necessary to convince yours 
of the innocence of my friend. To convince is my ob- 
ject. If it were in my power I should, upon the pre- 
sent occasion, disdain to persuade. I should think it 
equally incompatible with my own honour and that of 
the Count Laniska. With these sentiments I refrain, 
Prussians, from all eulogium upon the magnanimity of 
your king. Praises from a traitor, or from the advocate 
af a traitor, must be unworthy of a great monarch, or of 
a generous people. If the prisoner before you shall be 
proved to be no traitor, he will doubtless have opportu- 
nities of expressing by actions, better than I can by 
words, his gratitude to his sovereign for having allowed 
him this public trial by his equals — men who are able 
to discern and to assert the truth. It cannot have 
escaped their observation that no positive evidence what- 
ever has yet been produced against the prisoner. No 
one has yet been heard to swear that he saw Count 
Laniska write the word tyrant upon this vase. The 
first witness, Solomon the Jew, has informed us of 


156 


MORAL TALES. 


what our senses could not leave us room to doubt, that 
the word is actually engraved upon the porcelain ; fur- 
ther he has told us, that it was covered over with blue 
paint, which be rubbed off with his handkerchief. All 
this may be true; but the wisdom of Solomon, united 
to that of Baron Warendbrff, has failed to point out to 
us any certain connexion between this blue paint, this 
handkerchief, and the supposed guilt of the Count La^ 
niska. The master of the porcelain manufactory came 
next, and I apprehended that, as being a more respecta- 
ble witness than the Jew, it was reserved for him to 
supply this link in the chain of evidence. But this re- 
spectable witness simply swore, that he heard a woman 
say she could not write or read ; that she asked Count 
Laniska to write an inscription upon a vase for her; 
that, in consequence of this request, the count wrote 
something upon the vase, he does not pretend to know 
what; but he believes that the word tyrant must have 
been one of the words then written by the count, be- 
cause he saw no one else write on the vase; because the 
handwriting of that word resembles the rest of the in- 
scription ; and because the count, in his hearing, had, 
upon a former occasion, made use of the same expres- 
sion in speaking of the king. I recapitulate this evi- 
dence to show that it is in no part positive ; that it all 
restS' upon circumstances. In order to demonstrate to 
you that the word in question could not have been 
written by any person but Laniska, two witnesses are 
produced — the workman who carried the vase to the 
furnace, and he who put it into the fire. The one has 
positively sworn that no person touched the vase on 
the way to the furnace. The other as positively swears 
that no one meddled with the vase after it was put into 
the furnace. 

It is granted that the word could not have been en- 
graved after the buscuit was baked. The witness, how- 
ever, has not sworn or asserted that there was no inter- 
val of time between his receiving the vase and his put- 
ting it into the fire. What became of it during this 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 15/ 

interval? How long did it last? Will the witness 
swear that no one touched it during this interval? 

These are questions which I shall put to him pre- 
sently. I hope I have established my hrst assertion, 
that you have no positive evidence of the prisoner’s 
guilt. 

You well know, gentleman, that where positive 
evidence of any supposed fact cannot be produced, our 
judgments must be decided by the balance of probabi- 
lities; and it is for this reason that the study of proba- 
bilities, and the power of comparing them, has, in a 
late celebrated essay, been called the Science of Judges* 
To you, judges of my friend, all the probabilities of his 
supposed guilt have been stated. Weigh and compare 
them with those which I shall produce in favour of his 
innocence. His education, his character, his under- 
standing, are all in his favour. The Count Laniska 
must be much below the common standard of human 
virtue and capacity, if, Avithout any assignable motive, 
he could have committed an action at once so base and 
so absurd as this of which he is accused. His temper 
is naturally or habitually open and impetuous, even to 
extreme imprudence. An instance of this imprudence, 
and of the manner in which it was pardoned by the 
king has been stated to you. Is it probable that the 
same man should be both ingenuous and mean? Is it 
probable that the generosity with which he was treated 
made no impression upon his heart? His heart must, 
upon this suppostion, be selfish and unfeeling. Look 
up, gentlemen, towards that gallery — look at that 
anxious mother! those eager friends I — Could Laniska’s 
fate excite such anxiety if he were selfish and unfeeling? 
Impossible!— But suppose him destitute of every gene- 
rous sentiment, you cannot imagine Count Laniska to 
be a fool. You have been lately reminded that he was 
early distinguished for his abilities by a monarch whose 
penetration we cannot doubt, lie was high in the fa- 
vour of his sovereign ; just entering upon life — a mili- 


♦ Voltaire— Essai sur les rrobabilit<5s en fait de Justice. 

o 14 


158 


MORAL TALES. 


tary lifej his hopes of distinction resting- entirely upon 
the good opinion of his general and his king ; all these 
fair expectations he sacrifices — for what? for the 
pleasure — but it could be no pleasure — for the folly of 
writing a single word. Unless the Count Laniska be 
supposed to have’been possessed with an insane desire 
of writing the word tyrant, how can we account for his ‘ 
writing it upon this vase? Did he wish to convey to 
France the idea that Frederick the Great is a tyrant? 
A man of common sense could surely have found, at 
least, safer methods of doing so than by engraving it as 
his opinion upon a vase which he knew was to pass 
through the hands of the sovereign whom he purposed 
thus treacherously to insult. The extreme improbability 
that any man in the situation, with the character, habits, 
and capacity of Count Laniska, should have acted in 
this manner, amounts, in my judgment, almost to a 
moral impossibility. I knew nothing'^more, gentlemen, 
of this cause when I first offered to defend Laniska at 
the hazard of my liberty ; it was not merely from the 
enthusiasm of friendship that I made this offer: it was 
from the sober conviction of my understanding, founded 
upon the accurate calculation of moral probabilities. 

“ It has been my good fortune, gentlemen, in the 
course of the inquiries which I have since made, to 
obtain further confirmation of my opinion. Without 
attempting any of that species of oratory which may be 
necessary to cover falsehood, but which would encum- 
ber instead of adorning truth, I shall now, in the sim- 
plest manner in my power, lay the evidence before 
the court. 

The first witness Albert called was the workman who 
carried the vase to the man at the furnace. Upon his 
cross-examination, he said that he did not deliver the 
vase into the hands of the man at the furnace, but that 
he put it, along with several other pieces, upon a tray, 
on a table which stoodmear the furnace. 

Mbert. “ You are certain that you put it upon a 
tray ?» 

Witness. ‘‘ Q.uite certain.’^ 


THE PRUSSIAJf VASE. 159 

Albert. “ What reason have you for remembering 
that circumstance particularly * 

Witness. ‘‘ I remember it, because I at first set this 
vase upon the ledge of the tray, and it was nearly fall- 
ing. 1 was frightened at that accident, which makes 
me particularly remember the thing. I made room upon 
the tray for the vase, and left it quite safe upon the tray : 
I am positive of it.’’ 

Albert. “ That is all I want with you, my good 
friend.” 

The next witness called was the man whose business 
it was to pul the vases into the furnace. 

Albert. ‘^Did you see the witness who was last ex- 
amined put this vase upon a tray when he left it under 
your care 

Witness. “I did.” 

Albert. “ You are certain that he put it upon the tray. 
What reason have you to remember th^it circumstance 
particularly ?” 

Witness. “ I remember it, because I heard the wit- 
ness cry out, ‘ TherCy William, I had like to have thrown 
down this cursed vase; but, look you here, I’ve left it 
quite safe upon the tray.’ Upon this I fumed and looked, 
and saw that vase standing upon the tray, safe, with 
some others.” 

Albert. ‘‘Do you recollect any thing else that pass- 
ed ?” 

Witness. “ Only that the witness told me I must put 
it — the vase I mean — into the furnace directly ; and 1 
answered to that, ‘ All in good time; the furnace is not 
ready yet; it will go in along with the rest.’ ” 

Albert. “ Then you did not put it into the furnace 
immediately after it was left with you?” 

Witness. “ No, I did not — but that was not my fault 
— I could not ; the furnace was not hot enough.” 

Albert. “ How long do you think it was from the 
time it was left upon the tray till you put it into the 
furnace?” 

Witness. “ I don’t know — I can’t be positive : it might 
be a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes ; or it might 


160 


MORAL TALES. 


\ 

be half an Iiour. I cannot be positive, sir; I cannot be 
posiiive.^^ 

Albert. “ You need not be positive. Nobody wants 
you to be positive. Nobody wants to entrap you, my 
good friend. — During this quarter of an hour, or twenty 
minutes, or half an hour, that you speak of, did you ever 
lose sight of this vase 

Witness. To be sure I did. I did not stand watch- 
ing it all the while. Why should I? It was safe 
enough.” 

Albert. ‘‘ Do you recollect where you found the vase 
when you took it to put it into the furnace?” 

Witness. “ Yes : it was standing, as it might be here, .. 
in the middle of the table.” 

Albert. “ Do you recollect whether it was standing 
upon the tray or not?” 

Witness. “ It was not upon the tray, as I recollect ; 
no. Pm sure it was not, for I carried to the furnace first 
the tray and all that was on it, and then, 1 remember, 

I came back for this, which was standing, as I said be- 
fore, as it might be here, in the middle of the table.” 

Albert. “ Was any body, except yourself, at the fur- 
nace, or in the room, from the time that this vase was 
brought to you, till you put it into the furnace?” 

Witness. “ Not as I remember. It was our dinner 
time. All the men, except myself, were gone to dinner : 

I staid to mind the furnace.” 

Albert. “ It was you, then, that took this vase off 
the tray, was it?” 

Witness. ‘‘No, it was not. I never took it off the 
tray. I told you it was not upon the tray with the 
others ; I told you it was upon the table, as it might be 
here.” 

Albert. “ Yes, when you were going to put it into 
the furnace, you said that you saw it standing in the 
middle of the table ; but you recollect that you saw the 
workman who brought it put it upon the tray. You told 
us you remembered that circumstance perfectly.” 

Witness. “Yes, so I do.” 

Albert. “ The vase could not have got off the tray of 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. ^ 161 

itself. You did not take it off. How came it off, do 
you think?” 

Witness. I don’t know. I can’t tell. Somebody, 
to be sure, must have taken it off. I was minding the 
furnace. My back was to the door. I don’t recollect 
seeing anybody come in ; but many might have come 
in and out, without my heeding them.” 

Mhert. Take your own time, my good friend. Re- 
collect yourself; perhaps you may remember.” 

Witness. “ O yes, now you put me upon recollect- 
ing, I do remember that Solomon the Jew came in, and 
asked me where Sophia Mansfeld was; and it certainly 
must have been he who took the vase off the tray ; for, 
now I recollect, as I looked round once from the furnace 
I saw him with it in his hand ; he was looking at the 
bottom of it, as I remember; he said, here are some fine 
verses, or some such thing ; but I was minding the fur- 
nace. That’s all I know about the matter.” 

Mbert. “ That is enough.” 

The next witness who came forward was the husband 
of Sophia Mansfeld. — He deposed, that on the 29lh of 
April, the day on which the Prussian vase was finished, 
as stated by the former evidence, and .sent to be put into 
the furnace, he met Sophia Mansfeld in the street: she 
was going home to dinner. He asked to see the vase: 
she said that it was, she believed, put into the furnace, 
and that he could not then see it; that she was sorry 
he had not come sooner, for that he could have written 
the inscription on it for her, and that would have spared 
her the shame of telling Count Laniska that she could 
not read or write. She added, that the count had writ- 
ten all that was wanting for her. The witness, being 
impatient to see the vase, went as fast as he could to the 
manufactory, in hopes of getting a sight of it before it 
was put into the furnace. He met Solomon the Jew at 
the door of the manufactory, who told him that he was 
too late, that all the vases were in the furnace; he had 
just seen them put in. The Jew as the witness now 
recollects, though it did not strike him at the time, was 
eager to prevent him from going into the furnace room. 

o 2 14* 


162 


MORAL TALES. 


Solomon took him by the arm, and Avalked with him up 
the street, talking to him of some money which he was 
to remit to Meissen, to Sophia Mansfeld’s father and 
mother. 

Albert asked the witness on whose account this money 
was to be remitted by the Jew to Meissen. 

Witness. “ The money was to be remitted on Sophia 
Mansfeld’s account.’^ 

Albert. Did she borrow it from the Jew?’^ 

Witness. “ No ; the Jew owed it to her for work 
done by her. She had the art of painting on glass. She 
had painted some glasses for a large magic lantern, and 
several small pictures on glass. She did these things at 
the hours when she was not obliged to be at the manu- 
factory. She rose very early in the morning, and work*" 
ed hard. She sold her work to the Jew upon condition 
that he would remit the price agreed upon to her father 
and mother, who were old, and depended on her for 
support.’’ 

Albert. Was the money punctually remitted to her 
father and mother by the Jew?” 

Witness. Not a farthing of it was remitted by him, 
as Sophia discovered since her return to Meissen.” 

Albert. “ Did you ever hear this Jew say any thing 
about Sophia Mansfeld’s returning to Saxony ?” 

Witness. “Yes; I once heard the Jew say that he 
hoped she never would leave Berlin, because she was 
af great use to him. He advised me to settle in Berlin. 
This passed about six weeks ago. About a week before 
the prize was decided by the king, I met the Jew, and 
told him Sophia had good hopes of getting back to 
Saxony. He looked very much vexed, and said, ‘ She 
is not sure of that.’ ” 

Albert. “ Did you ever hear this Jew speak of Count 
Laniska?” 

Witness. “ Yes, about two months ago I saw him in 
the street when I was speaking to Solomon, and I asked 
the Jew who he was. He answered, ‘ He is the Count 
Laniska — a man that I hate, and on whom I will be re- 
venged some time or other.’ I asked why he hated the 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 163 

I 

count. The Jew replied, ‘Because the Christian dog 
has made the corps of Jews his laughing-stock. This 
day, when my son was going through his manual exer- 
cise before the king. Count Laniska was holding ^ 
sides with laughter. I’ll be revenged upon him Some 
time or other.”’ 

Albert. “ I have no occasion, sir, to trouble you with 
any further questions.” 

The next witness who appeared was a druggist of 
Berlin. He deposed that on the 30th of April Solomon 
the Jew came to his shop and asked for blue paints; 
that, after trying the colours very carefully upon the 
back of a letter, which he took out of his pocket, he 
bought a small quantity of a shade of blue, which the 
witness produced in court. 

Albert ordered that the paint should be handed to the 
gentlemen of the jury, that they might compare it with 
the blue ground of the Prussian vase. With this it was 
found, upon comparison, to match exactly. 

Albert to the druggist. “ Do you know what became 
of the paper upon which you say the Jew tried your 
colours 7” 

Witness. “Yes; here it is. I fou^id it under the 
counter, after the Jew went away, and I kept it to re- 
turn to him, as I saw there was an account on the other 
side of the paper, which I imagined he might want. 
He never happened to call at rny shop afterward, and I 
forgot that I had such a paper, till you, sir, called upon 
me about a week ago, to make^ inquiry on this subject. 
You desired me to keep the paper carefully, and not to 
let any one know that it was in my possession till the 
day on which the trial of Count Laniska was to come 
on. I have complied with your request, and here is the 
paper.” 

The paper was handed to the jury ; and one of the 
shades of blue exactly matched that of the ground of 
the Prussian vase. Albert now called upon the Jew to 
produce, once more, the handkerchief with which he 
had rubbed off" the paint. The chain of evidence was 
now complete, foi the blue on the handkerchief was 


164 


MORAL TALES. 


precisely the, same as the colours on the paper and on 
the vase- After the jury had satisfied themselves of this 
resemblance, Albert begged that they would read what 
was written upon the paper. The first thing that struck 
their eyes was the word tyrant frequently repeated, as 
if by some one who had been practising to write differ- 
ent hands. One of these words was an exact resem- 
blance of the word tyrant on the Prussian vase : and 
Albert pointed out a circumstance which had till now 
escaped attention, that the letter r in this word was 
made differently from all the ?-’s in the rest of the in- 
scription. The writing of the Count Laniska had, in 
every other respect, been successfully imitated. 

After Albert had shown these things to the jury, he 
here closed the evidence in favour of the prisoner, ob- 
serving that the length of time which the trial had lasted 
seemed to have somewhat fatigued both the judge and 
jury ; and knowing that it was now their usual hour of 
dinner, he prudently forbore to make a long speech upon 
the evidence which had been laid before them in favour 
of his friend : he left it to their own understandings to 
determine the balance of probabilities between the ho- 
nour of Count Laniska and the honesty of Solomon 
the Jew. 

The judge, in a manner which would have done ho- 
nour even to the English bench, summed up the evL 
dence on both sides, and gave a distinct and impressive 
charge to the jury, who, without leaving the court, gave 
a verdict in favour of the prisoner. Loud acclamations 
filled the hall. In the midst of these acclamations, the 
word Silence!” was pronounced by that voice which 
never failed to command instantaneous obedience in 
Prussia. All eyes turned upon the monarch. 

“This court is now dissolved,” said his majesty. 
“My judgment confirms the verdict of the jury. Count 
Laniska, I took your sword from you too hastily. Ac- 
cept of mine in its stead.” And as he pronounced these 
words, Frederick ungirded his sword, and presented it 
to the young count. “ As for you, sir,” continued the 
king, addressing himself to Albert, “ you want no sword 


V 


THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 


165 


for the defence of your friends. Your arms are supe- 
rior to ours. Let me engage them in my service; and 
trust me, I shall not leave them long unemployed, or 
unrewarded.’’ 

There was but one person present to whom this speech 
seemed to give no satisfaction. This person was Solo- 
mon the Jew, who stood apart waiting in black silence 
to learn nis own fate. He was sentenced, not to a year’s 
imprisonment in the castle of Spandau, but to sweep the 
streets of Potsdam (including the court in front of Count 
Laniska’s palace) for a twelvemonth. 

After having heard this sentence, which was univer- 
sally approved, the spectators began to retire. 

The king dined — it is always important to know where 
great men dine — Frederick the Great dined this day at 
the Countess Laniska’s, in company with her son, his 
friend Albert, and the Engiisn traveller. After dinner, 
the king withdrew to attend parade ; and it was observed 
that he wore the Count Lariiska’s sword. 

“You will allow,” said the countess to the English 
traveller, “that our king is a great man; for none but 
great men can bear to acknowledge that they have been 
mistaken.” 

“ You will allow, madam,” continued the English- 
man, “'that it was our English trial by jury which con- 
vinced the king of his mistake.” 

“And you applaud him tor granting that trial?” said 
Albert. 

“ To a certain degree, I do,” said the Englishman, 
from whom it was difficult to extort praise of a despotic 
king : “ to a certain degree, I do ; but you will observe, 
that this trial by jury, which is a matter of favour to 
you Prussians, is a matter of right to us Englishmen. 
Much as I admire your king of Prussia, I admire our 
English constitution more.” 










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GOOD AUNT 


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THE 






GOOD AUNT. 


Charles Howard was left an orphan when he was 
very young. His father had dissipated a large fortune, 
and lost his life in a duel, about some debt of honour 
which had been contracted at the gaming-table. Without 
fortune and without friends, this poor boy would probably 
have lived and died in wretchedness, but for the humanity 
of his good aunt Mrs. Frances Howard. This lady pos- 
sessed a considerable fortune, which, in the opinion of 
some of her acquaintance, was her highest merit ; others 
respected her as the branch of an ancient family ; some 
courted her acquaintance because she was visited by the 
best company in town ; and many were ambitious of 
being introduced to her because they were sure of meet- 
ing at her house several of those distinguished literary 
characters who throw a radiance upon all who can con- 
trive to get within the circle of their glories. Some few, 
some very few of Mrs. Howard’s acquaintance admired 
her for her real worth, and merited the name of friends. 
She was a young and cheerful woman when she first 
undertook the education of her little nephew. She had 
the courage to resist the allurements of dissipation, or 
all that by her sex are usually thought allurements. She 
had the courage to apply herself seriously to the culti- 
vation of her understanding: she educated herself, that 
she might be able to fulfil the important duty of edu- 
cating a child. Hers was not the foolish fondness of a 
foolish aunt; she loved her nephew, and she wished to 
educate him so that her affection might increase, instead 
of diminishing, as he grew up. By associating early 

A 2 15 (5) 


6 


MORAL TALES. 


pleasure with reading, little Charles soon became fond 
of it : he was never forced to read books which he did 
not understand ; his aunt used, when he was very young, 
to read aloud to him any thing entertaining that she met 
with ; and whenever she perceived by his eye that his 
attention was not fixed, she stopped. When he was able 
to read fluently to himself, she selected for him passages 
from books which she thought would excite his curiosity 
to know more ; and she was not in a hurry to cram him 
with knowledge, but rather anxious to prevent his grow- 
ing appetite for literature from being early satiated. She 
always encouraged him to talk to her freely about what 
he read, and to tell her when he did not like any of the 
books which she gave him. She conversed with him 
with so much kindness and cheerfulness, she was so 
quick at perceiving his latent meaning, and she was so 
gentle and patient when she reasoned with him, that he 
loved to talk to her better than to any body else : nor could 
little Charles ever thoroughly enjoy any pleasure without 
her sympathy. 

The conversation of the sensible, well-informed peo- 
ple who visited Mrs. Howard contributed to form her 
nephew’s taste. A child may learn as much from conver- 
sation as from books — not so many historic facts, but 
as much instruction. Greek and Latin were the grand 
difiicullies. Mrs. Howard didhot understand Greek and 
Latin; nor did she, though a woman, set too high or too 
low a value upon the learned languages. She was con- 
vinced that a man might be a great scholar without being 
a man of sense ; she was also pereuaded that a man of 
sense might be a good scholar. She knew that, what- 
ever abilities her nephew might possess, he could not be 
upon a footing with other men in the world without pos- 
sessing that species of knowledge which is universally 
expected from gentlemen, as an essential proof of their 
having received a liberal education ; nor did she attempt 
to undervalue the pleasures of classic taste merely be- 
cause she was not qualified to enjoy them : she was con- 
vinced by the testimony of men of candour and judgment, 
that a Classical taste is a source of real enjoyment, and 


THE GOOD AUNT. 7 

sue wished her nephew’s literary pleasures to have as 
extensive a range as possible. 

To instruct her nephew in the learned languages, she 
engaged a good scholar and a man of sense ; his name — 
for a man is nothing without a name — was Russell.* 
Little Charles did not at first relish Latin; he used some- 
times to come from his Latin lessons with a very dull, 
stupified face, which gradually brightened into intelli- 
gence after he had talked for a few minutes with his 
aunt. Mrs. Howard, though pleased to perceive that he 
was fond of her, had not the weakness to sacrifice his 
permanent advantage to her transient gratification. One 
evening Charles came running up stairs to his aunt, who 
was at tea; several people happened to be present. — “I 
have done with Mr. Russell and my Latin, ma’am, thank 
goodness — now may I have the elephant and the camel, 
or the bear and her cubs, that you marked for me last 
night?” 

The company laughed at this speech of Charles ; and a 
silly lady — for even Mrs. Howard could not make all her 
acquaintance wise — a silly lady whispered to Charles, 
“ I’ve a notion, if you’d tell the truth, now, that you like 
the bear and her cubs a great deal better than you do 
Latin and Mr. Russell.” 

I like the bear a great deal better than I do Latin, to 
be sure,” said the boy ; ‘^but as for Mr. Russell — why I 
think,” added he, encouraged by the lad.y’s smiles, “ I 
think I like the bear better than Mr. Russell.” 

The lady laughed affectedly at this sally. 

“ I am sure,” continued Charles, fancying that every 
person present was delighted with his wit, “I am sure 
at any rate, I like the learned pig fifty times better than 
Mr. Russell !” 

The judicious lady burst into a second fit of laughter. 
Mrs. Howard looked very grave. Charles broke from the 
lady’s caresses, and going up to his aunt, timidly looking 
up in her face, said, ‘‘ Am I a fool ?” 

* Russell. — This name is chosen for that of a <rood tutor, because 
it was the name of Mr. Edgworlh’s tutor, at Oxford; Mr Russell was 
also tutor to the late Mr. Day. Both by Mr. Day and Mr. Edgeworth 
he was respected, esteemed, and beloved in no common degree. 


8 


3I0RAL TALES. 


“ You are but a child,’^ said Mrs. Howard ; apd turning 
away from him, she desired the servant who waited at 
tea to let Mr. Russell know that she desired the honour 
of his company. Mrs. Holloway — for that was the silly 
lady’s name — at the words “ honour of his company.” 
resumed her gravity, but looked round to see what the 
rest of the company thought. 

Give me leave, Mr. Russell,” said Mrs. Howard as 
soon as he came into the room, to introduce you to a 
gentleman for whose works I know you have a great 
esteem.” The gentleman was a celebrated traveller, just 
returned from abroad, whose conversation was as much 
admired as his writings. 

The conversation now took a literary turn. The tra- 
veller being polite, as well as entertaining, drew out Mr. 
Russell’s knowledge and abilities. Charles now looked 
up to his tutor with respect. Children have sufficient 
penetration to discover the opinions of others by their 
countenance and manner, and their sympathy is quickly 
influenced by the example of those around them. Mrs. 
Howard led the traveller to speak of what he had seen in 
different countries — of natural history — of the beaver, 
and the moose-deer, and the humming-bird, that is scarce- 
ly larger than a humble-befr; and the mocking-bird, that 
can imitate the notes of all other birds. Charles niched 
himself into a corner of the sofa upon which the gentle- 
men were sitting, and grew very attentive. He was 
rather surprised to perceive that his tutor was as much 
entertained with the conversation as he was himself. 

Pray sir,” said Mrs. Howard to the traveller, “ is it 
true that the humming-bird is a passionate little animal? 
Is the story told by the author of the Farmer’s Letters 
true?” 

** What story ?” said Charles, eagerly. 

Of a humming-bird that flew into a fury with a flower, 
and tore it to pieces because it could not get the honey 
out of it all at once.” 

O, ma’am,” said little Charles, peeping over his tutor’s 
shoulders, “ will you show me that ? Have you got the 
book, dear aunt ?” 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


9 


" It is Mr. Russell’s book,” said his aunt. 

‘^Your book!” cried Charles; ‘^what! and do you 
know all about animals, and those sort of entertaining 
things, as well as Latin ? And can you tell me, then, 
what I want very much to know, how they catch the 
humming-bird ?” 

‘‘They shoot it.” 

“ Shoot it ! but what a large hole they must make in 
its body and beautiful feathers ! I thought you said its 
whole body was no bigger than a bee — a humble-bee.” 

“ They make no hole in its body — they shoot it with- 
out ruffling even its feathers.” 

“ How, how?” cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, 
whom he now regarded no longer as a mere man of 
Latin. 

“ They charge the gun with water,” said Mr. Russell, 
“ and the poor little humming-bird is stunned by the dis- 
charge.” 

The conversation next turned upon the entertaining 
chapter on instinct in Dr. Darwin’s Zoonoraia. Charles 
did not understand all that was said, for the gentlemen 
did not address themselves to him. He never listened 
to what he did not understand : but he was very quick 
at hearing whatever was within the limits of his com- 
prehension. He heard of the tailor-bird, that uses its 
long bill as a needle, to sew the dead and the living leaf 
together, of which it makes its light nest, lined with 
feathers and gossamer : of the fish called the “ old sol- 
dier,” who looks out for the empty shell of some dead 
animal, and fits this armour upon himself: of the Ja- 
maica spider, who makes himself a house under ground, 
with a door and hinges, which door the spider and all 
the members of his family take care to shut after them, 
whenever they go in and out. 

Little Charles, as he sat eagerly attentive in his cor- 
ner of the sofa, heard of the trumpet of the common 
gnat,* and of its proboscis, which serves at once for an 
awl, a saw, and a pump. 

* St. Pierre, Etudes de la Nature. 

15 * 


10 


MORAL TALES. 


“ Are there any more such things,” exclaimed Charles, 
“in these books'?” 

“ A great many,” said Mr. Russell. 

“I’ll read them all!” cried Charles, starting up — 
“may I? may not I, aunt?” 

“ Ask Mr. Russell,” replied his aunt : “ he who is 
obliged to give you the pain of learning what is tire- 
some, should have the pleasure of rewarding you with 
entertaining books. Whenever he asks me lor Dr. 
Darwin and St. Pierre, you shall have them. We are 
both of one mind. We know that learning Latin is not 
the most amusing occupation in the world, but still it 
must be learned.” 

“Why,”.said Charles, modestly, “you don’t under- 
stand Latin, do you ?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Howard : “ but I am a woman, and 
it is not thought necessary that a woman should under- 
stand Latin ; nor can I explain to you, at your age, why 
it is expected that a gentleman should ; but here are se- 
veral gentlemen present — ask them whether it be not 
necessary that a gentleman should.” 

Charles gathered all the opinions, and especially that 
of the entertaining traveller. 

Mrs. Holloway, the silly lady, during that part of the 
conversation from which she might have acquired some 
knowledge, had retired to the further end of the room, 
to a game of trictrac with an obsequious chaplain. Her 
game being finished, she came up to hear what the 
crowd round the sofa could be talking about ; and hear- 
ing Charles ask the opinions of the gentlemen about the 
necessity of learning Latin, she nodded sagaciously at 
Mrs. Howard, and, by way of making up for former er- 
rors, said to Charles, in the most authoritative tone, 

“ Yes, I can assure you, Mr. Charles, I am quite of 
the gentlemen’s opinion, and so is everybody — and this 
is a point upon which I have some right to speak; for 
my Augustus, who is only a year arid seven months 
older than you are, sir, is one of the best scholars of his 
age, I am told, in England. But then, to be sure, it was 
flogged into him well at first at a public school, which. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 11 

I understand, is the best way of making good scho* 

lars.’’ 

''And the best way of making boys love literature,^^ 
said Mrs. Howard. 

" Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Holloway, who mis- 
took Mrs. Howard’s tone of inquiry for a tone of asser- 
tion, a lone more familiar to her — Certainly ma’am, I 
knew you would come round to my notions at last. Pm 
sure my Augustus must be fond of his Latin, for never 
in the vacations did I ever catch him with any English 
book in his hand.” 

"Poor boy!” said Charles, with unfeigned compas- 
sion. 

" And when, my dear Mrs. Howard,” continued Mrs. 
Holloway, laying her hand upon Mrs. Howard’s arm, 
with a yet untasted pinch of snuff between her fingers, 
" when will you send Mr. Charles to school?” 

"Oh, aunt, don’t send me away from you — Oh, Sir! 
Mr. Russell, try me — I will do my very, very best, with- 
out having it flogged into me, to learn Latin — only try 
me.” 

" Dear Sir, I really beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Hol- 
loway to Mr. Russell ; " I absolutely only meant to sup- 
port Mrs. Howard’s opinion for the sweet boy’s good; 
and I thought I saw you go out of the room, or some- 
body else went out, when I was at trictrac. But Pm 
convinced a private tutor may do wonders at the same 
lime : and if my Augustus prejudiced me in favour of 
public education, you’ll excuse a mother’s partiality. 
Besides, I make it a rule never to interfere in the educa- 
tion of my boys. Mr. Holloway is answerable for them, 
and if he prefer public schools to a private tutor, you 
must be sensible, sir, it would be very wrong in me to 
sdt my poor judgment in opposition to Mr. Holloway’s 
opinion.” 

Mr. Russell bowed ; for when a lady claims a gentle- 
man’s assent to a series of inconsistent propositions, 
what answer can he make but — a bow? Mrs. Hol- 
loway’s carriage was now at the door, and, without 


12 


MORAL TALES. 


troubling herself any further about the comparative me* 
rits of public and private education, she departed. 

When Mrs. Howard was left alone with her nephew, 
she seized the moment while his mind was yet warm, 
to make a lasting impression. Charles, instead of going 
to Bulfon’s account of the elephant, which he was very 
impatient to read, sat down resolutely to his Latin les- 
son. Mrs. Howard looked over his shoulder, and when 
he saw her smile of approbation, he said, “Then you 
won’t send me away from you?” 

“ Not unless you oblige me to do so,” said his aunt. 
“ 1 love to have you with me, and I will try for one year 
whether you have energy enough to learn what is dis- 
agreeable to you, without — ” 

“ Without its being flogged into me,” said Charles : — 
“ you shall see.” 

This boy had a great deal of energy and application. 
The Latin lessons were learned very perfectly ; and as 
he did not spend above an hour a day at them, he was 
not disgusted with application. His general taste for 
literature, and his fund of knowledge, increased rapidly 
from year to year, and the activity of his mind promised 
continual improvement. His attachment to Mrs. How- 
ard increased as he grew up, for she never claimed any 
gratitude from her pupil, or exacted from him any of 
those little observances which women sometimes consi- 
der as essential proofs of affection. She knew that these 
minute attentions are particularly irksome to boys, and 
that they are by no means the natural expression of their 
feelings;' She had sufficient strength of mind to be secure 
in the possession of those qualities which merit esteem 
and love, and to believe that the child whom she had 
educated had a heart and understanding that must feel 
and appreciate her value. 

When Charles Howard was about thirteen, an event 
happened which changed his prospects in life. Mrs. 
Howard’s large fortune was principally derived from an 
estate in the West Indies, wnich had been left to her by 
her grandfather. She did not particularly wish to be 
the proprietor of slaves ; and from the time that she came 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


13 


to the management of her own affairs, she had been de- 
sirous to sell her West India property. Her agent re- 
presented to her that this could not be done without con- 
siderable loss. From year to year the business was de- 
layed, till at length a gentleman, who had a plantation 
adjoining to hers, offered to purchase her estate. She 
was neither one pf those ladies who, jealous of their 
free-will, would rather act for themselves, that is to say, 
follow their own whims in matters of business, than 
consult men who possess the requisite information; nor 
was she so ignorant of business, or so indolent, as to be 
at the mercy of any designing agent or attorney. After 
consulting proper persons, and after exerting a just pro- 
portion of her own judgment, she concluded her bargain 
with the West Indian. Her plantation was sold to him, 
and all her property was shipped for her on board the 
Lively Peggy. Mr. Alderman Holloway, husband to the 
silly Mrs. Holloway, was one of the trustees appointed 
by her grandfather’s«will. The alderman, who was sup- 
posed to be very knowing in all worldly concerns, sanc- 
tioned the affair with his approbation. The lady was at 
this time rich; and Alderman Holloway applauded her 
humanity in having stipulated for the liberty and pro- 
vision grounds of some old negroes upon her plantation ; 
he even suggested to his son Augustus, that this would 
make a very pretty, proper subject for a copy of verses, 
to be addressed to Mrs. Howard. The verses were 
written in elegaqt Latin ; and the young gentleman was 
proceeding with some difficulty in his English transla- 
tion of them, when they were suppressed by parental 
authority. The alderman changed his opinion as to the 
propriety of the argument of this poem : the reasons 
which worked upon his mind were never distinctly ex- 
pressed ; they may, however, be deduced from the pe- 
rusal of the following letter ; — 


B 


14 


MORAL TALES. 


TO MRS. FRANCES HOWARD. 


Dear Madam, 

“ Sorry am I to be under the disagreeable necessity 
of communicating to you, thus abruptly, the melancholy 
news of the loss of ‘ the Lively Peggy,’ with your valu- 
able consignment on board, viz. sundry puncheons of 
rum, and hogsheads of sugar, in which commodities (as 
usual) your agent received the purchase-money of your 
late fine West India estate. I must not, however re- 
luctantly, omit to mention the casket of your grand- 
mother’s jewels, which I now regret was sent by this 
opportunity. ’Tis an additional loss — some thousands, 
I apprehend. 

“The captain of the vessel I have just seen, who was 
set on shore, on the 15th ultimo, on the coast of Wales j 
his mate mutinied, and, in conspiracy with the crew, 
have run away with the vessel. 

“ I have only to add, that Mrs. Holloway and my 
daughter Angelina sincerely unite with me in compli- 
ments and condolence; and I shall be happy if I can be 
of any service in the settlement of your affairs. 

“ Mrs. Holloway desires me to say, she would do her- 
self the honour of waiting upon you to-morrow, but is 
setting out for Margate. 

“ I am, dear madam, 

“Your most obedient and humble servant, 

“ A. T. Holloway. 

“ P. S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting tc 
insure.” 

t 

Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, 
gave it to her nephew, who was reading in the room 
with her when she received it. He showed more emotion 
on reading it than she had done. The coldness of the 
alderman’s letter seemed to strike the boy more than the 
loss of a fortune — “And this is a friend!” he exclaimed 
with indignation. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


15 


** No, my love,” said Mrs. Howard, with a calm 
smile, “ I never thought Mr. Holloway any thing more 
than a common acquaintance : I hope — I am sure I have 
chosen my friends better.” 

Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, 
which seemed to say, “ Did you mean to call me one 
of your friends'?” and then he grew very thoughtful. 

‘^My dear Charles,” said the aunt, after nearly a 
quarter of an hour’s silence, may I know what you 
have been thinking of all this time?” 

Thinking of, ma’am !” said Charles, starting from 
his reverie — “ of a great many things — of all you have 
done for me — of— of what I could do — I don’t mean 
now ; for I know I am a child, and can do nothing — I 
don’t mean nothing . — I shall soon be a man, and then I 
can be a physician, or a lawyer, or something. — Mr. 
Russel told me the other day, that if I applied myself, I 
might be whatever I pleased. What would you wish 
me to be, ma’am? — because that’s what I will be — if I 
can.” 

Then I wish you to be what you are.” 

Oh madam,” said Charles, with a look of great mor- 
tification, ‘‘but that’s nothing. Won’t you make me of 
some use to you ! — But I beg your pardon, I know you 
can’t think about me just now. — Good night,” said he, 
and hurried out of the room. 

The news of the loss of the Lively Peggy, with all 
the particulars mentioned in Alderman Holloway’s let- 
ter, appeared in the next day’s newspapers, and in the 
succeeding paper appeared an advertisement of Mrs. 
Howard’s house in Portman-square, of her plate, china, 
furniture, books, &c. — She had never in affluence dis- 
dained economy. She had no debts ] not a single trades- 
man was a sufferer. by her loss. She had always lived 
within her annual income and though her generous dis- 
position had prevented her from hoarding money, she 
had a small sura in the funds, which she had prudently 
reserved for any unforeseen exigence. She had also a 
few diamonds which had been her mother’s, which Mr. 
Carat, the jeweller, who had new set them, was very 


16 


MORAL TALES. 


willing to purchase. He waited upon Mrs. Howard, 
in Portman-square, to complete the bargain. 

The want of sensibility which Charles showed when 
his aunt was pariing with her jewels to Mr. Carat would 
have infallibly ruined him in the opinion of most ladies. 
He took the trinkets up, one by one, without ceremony, 
and examined them, asking his aunt and the jeweller 
questions about the use and value of diamonds — about 
the working of the mines of Golconda — about the shi- 
ning of diamonds in the dark, observed by the children 
of Cogi Hassan, the rope-maker, in the Arabian Tales — 
about the experiment of Francis the First upon melting 
of diamonds and rubies. Mr. Carat was a Jew, and, 
though extremely cunning, profoundly ignorant. 

Dat king wash very grand fool, beg his majesty^s 
pardon,” said the Jew, with a shrewd smile; “but 
kings know better now-a-days. — Pleaven bless dere ma- 
jesties.” 

Charles had a great mind to vindicate the philosophic 
fame of Francis the First, but a new idea suddenly 
started into his head. “ My dearest aunt,” cried he, 
stopping her hand as she was giving her diamond ear- 
rings to Mr. Carat — “ stay, my dearest aunt, one instant, 
till I have seen whether this is a good day for selling 
diamonds.” 

“ Oh, my dear young gentleman, no day in de Jewish 
calender more proper for de purchase,” said the Jew. 

“ For the purchase ! yes,” said Charles ; “but for the 
sale 7” 

“ My love,” said his aunt, “ surely you are not sc 
foolish as to think there are lucky and unlucky days.” 

“No, I don’t mean any thing about lucky and un- 
lucky days,” said Charles, running up to consult the 
barometer; “but what I mean is not foolish indeed ; in 
some book I’ve read that the dealers in diamonds buy 
them when the air is light, and sell them when it is 
heavy, if they can ; because their scales are so nice that 
they vary with the change in the atmosphere. Perhaps 
I may not remember exactly the words, but that’s the 
sense I know : I’ll look for the words ; I know where 


THE GOOD ALWT. 17 

abouts to find them.” He jumped upon a chair to get 
down the book. 

^^But, master Charles,” said the Jew, with a show 
of deference, “ I will not pretend to make a bargain with 
you — I see you know a great deal more than I of dese 
traffics.” 

To this flattery Charles made no answer, but con- 
tinued looking for the passage he wanted in his book. 

While he was turning over the leaves, a gentleman, 
a friend of Mrs. Howard, who had promised her to meet 
Mr. Carat, came in. He was the gentleman formerly 
mentioned by the name of the traveller: he was a good 
judge of diamonds, and, what is better, he was a good 
judge of the human heart and understanding. He was 
much pleased with Charles’ ready recollection of the 
little knowledge he possessed, with his eagerness to 
make that knowledge of use to his aunt, and more with 
his perfect simplicity and integrity ; for Charles, after a 
moment’s thought, turned to the Jew and said, 

“ But the day that is good for my aunt must be bad 
for you. The buyers and sellers should each have fair 
play. Mr. Carat, your weights should be diamonds, 
and then the changes in the weight of the air would not 
signify one way or the other.” * 

Mr. Carat smiled at this speech, but, suppressing his 
contempt for the young gentleman, only observed, that 
he should most certainly follow Mr. Charles’ advice, 
whenever he wash rich enough to have diamonds for 
weights. 

The traveller drew from his pocket a small book, took 
a pen, and wrote in the title-pa^e of it. For one who will 
make a good use of it; and, with Mrs. Howard’s permis- 
sion, he gave the book to her nephew. 

do not believe,” said the gentleman, that there 
is at present another copy in England : I have just got 
this from France by a private hand.” 

The sale of his aunt’s books appeared to Charles a 
much more serious affair than the parting with her dia- 


* This observation was literally made by a boy of ten years old. 

b2 16 


18 


MORAL TALES. 


monds. He understood something of the value of books, 
and he took a sorrowful leave of many 'which he had 
read, and of many more which he had intended to read. 
Mrs. Howard selected a few for her own use, and she 
allowed her nephew to select as many for himself as she 
had done. He observed that there was a beautiful edition 
of Shakspeare, which he knew his aunt liked particu- 
larly, but which she did not keep, reserving instead of 
it Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which would in a few 
years, she said, be very useful to him. He immediately 
offered his favourite Etudes de la Nature to redeem the 
Shakspeare ; but Mrs. Howard would not accept of it, 
because she justly observed, that she could read Shaks- 
peare almost as well without its being in such a beautiful 
binding. Her readiness to part with all the luxuries to 
which she had been for many years accustomed, and 
the freedom and openness with which she spoke of all 
her affairs to her nephew, made a great impression 
upon his mind. 

Those are mistaken who think that young people 
cannof be interested in these sort of things : if no mys- 
tery be made of the technical parts of business, young 
people easily learn them, and they early take an interest 
in the affairs of their parents, instead of learning to sepa- 
rate their own views from those of their friends. Charles, 
young as he was at this time, was employed by his 
aunt frequently to copy, and sometimes to write letters 
of business for her. He drew out a careful inventory 
of all the furniture before it was disposed of ; he took 
lists of all the books and papers ; and at this work, how- 
ever tiresome, he was indefatigable, because he was en- 
couraged by the hope of being useful. This ambition 
had been early excited in his mind. 

When Mrs. Howard had settled her affairs, she took 
a small neat house near Westminster school,* for the 
purpose of a boarding-house for some of the West- 
minster - boys. This plan she preferred, because it 
secured an independent means of support, and at thy 


♦ See the account of Mrs. C. Ponten, in Gibbon’s Life. 


THK GOOD AUNT, 


19 


same lime enabled her, in some measure, to assist in 
her nephew’s education, and to enjoy his company. 
She was no longer able to afford a sufficient salary to a 
well-informed private tutor ; therefore she determined to 
send Charles to Westminster school; and, as he would 
board with her, she hoped to unite by this scheme, as 
much as possible, the advantages of a private and of a 
public education. Mr. Russell desired still to have the 
care of Mrs. Howard’s nephew ; he determined to offer 
himself as a tutor at Westminster school ; and, as his 
acquirements were well known to the literary world, he 
was received with eagerness. v 

‘^My dear boy,” said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, 
when he first went to Westminster, “ I shall not trouble 
you with a long chapter of advice: do you remember 
that answer of the oracle which seemed to strike you 
so much the other day, when you were reading the life 
of Cicero?” 

Yes,” said Charles, I recollect it — I shall never 
forget it. When Cicero asked how he should arrive at 
the height of glory, the oracle answered, ‘ By making 
his own genius, and not the opinion of the people, the 
guide of his life.’ ” 

Well,” said Mrs. Howard, smiling, if I were your 
oracle, and you were to put the same question to me, I 
think I should make you nearly the same answer; ex- 
cept that I should change the word genius into good' 
sense ; and, instead of the jjcople, I should say the world, 
which, jn general, I think, means all the silly people of 
one’s acquaintance. Farewell: now go to the West- 
minster world.” 

Westminster was quite a new world to young 
Howard, The bustle and noise at first astonished his 
senses, and almost confounded his understanding; but 
he soon grew accustomed to the din, and familiarized 
to the sight of numbers. At first, he thought himself 
much inferior to all his companions, because practice 
had given them the power of doing many things with 
ease which to him appeared difficult, merely because he 
had not been used to them. In all their games and 


20 


MORAL TALES. 


plays, either of address or force, he found himself 
foiled. In a readiness of repartee, and a certain ease 
and volubility of conversation, he perceived his defi- 
ciency ; and though he frequently was conscious that 
his ideas were more just, and his arguments better than 
those of his companions, yet he could not at first bring 
out his ideas to advantage, or manage his arguments so 
as to stand his ground against the mixed raillery and 
sophistry of his schoolfellows. He had not yet the tone 
of his new society, and he was as much at a loss as a 
traveller in a foreign country, before he understands the 
language of a people who are vociferating round about 
him. As fast, however, as he learned to translate the 
language of his companions into his own, he discovered 
that there was not so much meaning in their expres- 
sions as he had been inclined to imagine while they had 
remained unintelligible: but he was good-humoured 
and good-natured, so that, upon the whole, he was 
much liked; and even his inferiority, in many little 
trials of skill, was, perhaps, in his favour. He laughed 
with those that laughed at him, let them triumph in 
his awkwardness, but still persisted in new trials, till at 
last, to the great surprise of the spectators, he suc- 
ceeded. 

The art of boxing cost him more than all the rest; 
but, as he was neither deficient in courage of mind nor 
activity of body, he did not despair of acquiring the ne~ 
cessm-y skill in this noble science — necessary, we say, 
for Charles had not been a week at Westminster before 
he was made sensible of the necessity of practising this 
art in his own defence. He had yet a stronger motive; 
he found it necessary for the defence of one who looked 
up to him for protection. 

There was at this time at Westminster, a little boy, 
of the name of Oliver, a Creole, lively, intelligent, open- 
hearted and affectionate in the extreme, but rather pas- 
sionate in his temper, and adverse to application. His 
literary education had been strangely neglected before 
he came to school, so that his ignorance of the common 
rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, and arithme- 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


21 


tic, made him the laughing-stock of the school. The 
poor boy felt inexpressible sliame and anguish ; his 
cheek burned with blushes, when every day in the 
public class he was ridiculed and disgraced ; but his 
dark complexion, perhaps, prevented those blushes 
from being noticed by his companions, otherwise they 
certainly would have suppressed, or would have en- 
deavoured to repress, some of their insulting peals ot 
laughter. He suffered no complaint or tear to escape 
him in public ; but his book was sometimes blistered 
with the tears that fell when nobody saw them: what 
was worse than all the rest, he found insurmountable 
difficulties at every step in his grammar. He was un- 
willing to apply to any of his more learned companions 
for explanations or assistance. He began to sink into 
despair of his own abilities, and to imagine that he must 
for ever remain, what indeed he was every day called, 
a dunce. He was usually flogged three times a week. 
Day after day brought no relief, either to his bodily or 
mental sufferings: at length his honest pride yielded, 
and he applied to one of the elder scholars for help. 
The boy to whom he applied was Augustus Holloway, 
Alderman Holloway’s son, who was acknowledged to 
be one of the best Latin scholars at Westminster. He 
readily helped Oliver in his exercises, but he made him 
pay most severely for this assistance by the most tyran- 
nical usage; and, in all his tyranny, he thought him- 
self fully justifiable, because little Oliver, besides his 
other misfortunes, had the misfortune to be a fag. 

There may be — though many schoolboys will, per- 
haps, think it scarcely possible — there may be, in the 
compass of the civilized world, some persons so barba- 
rously ignorant as not to know what is meant by the 
term fag. To these it may be necessary to explain, that 
at some English schools it is the custom that all little 
boys, when they first go to school, should be under the 
dominion of the elder boys. These little boys are called 
fags, and are forced to wait upon and obey their master- 
companions. Their duties vary in different schools. I 
have heard of its being customary, in some places, to 

16 * 


22 


MORAL TALES. 


make use of a fag regularly in ihe depth of winter in- 
stead of a warming-pan, and to send the shivering urchin 
through ten or twenty beds successively, to take off the 
chill of cold for their luxurious masters. They are ex- 
pected in most schools to run of all the elder boys’ 
errands, to be ready at their call, and to do all their high 
behests. They must never complain of being tired, or 
their complaints will, at least, never be regarded, be- 
cause, as the etymology of the word implies, it is their 
business to be tired. The substantive /ag is not to be 
found in Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary ; but the verb to fag 
is there a verb neuter, from fatigo, Latin, and is there 
explained to mean, “*to grow weary, to faint with 
weariness.” This is all the satisfaction we can, after 
the most diligent research, afford the curious and learned 
reader upon the subjects fags in general. 

In particular, Mr. Augustus Holloway took great de- 
light in teasing his fag, little Oliver. One day it hap- 
pened that young Howard and Holloway were playing 
at ninepins together, and little Oliver was within a few 
yards of them, sitting under a tree, with a book upon 
his knees, anxiously trying to make out his lesson. 
Holloway, whenever the ninepins were thrown down, 
called to Oliver, and made him come from his book and 
set them up again : this he repeatedly did, in spite 
of Howard’s remonstrances, who always offered to 
set up the ninepins, and who said it teased the poor 
little fellow to call him every minute from what he was 
about. 

‘‘Yes,” said Holloway, “ I know it teases him — that 
1 see plain enough, by his running so fast back to his 
form like a hare — there he is, squatting again ; halloo! 
halloo ! come, start again here,” cried Holloway ; “ you 
haven’t done yet : bring me the bowl, halloo !” 

Howard did not at all enjoy the diversion of hunting 
the poor boy about in this manner, and he said, with 
some indignation, “ How is it possible, Holloway, that 
the boy can get his lesson if you interrupt him every 
instant?” 

“Pooh! what signifies his foolish lesson?” 


THE GOOD AUNT, 


23 


‘‘ It signifies a great deal to him,’’ replied Howard : 
“ you know what he suffered this morning because he 
had not it.” 

^‘Suffered! why, what did he suffer?” said Hollo- 
way, upon whose memory the sufferings of others made 
no very deep impression. ‘‘O, ay, true — you mean, 
he was flogged : more shame for him ! — why did not 
he mind and get his lesson better?” 

I had not time to understand it rightly,” said Oliver, 
with a deep sigh ; and I don’t think I shall have time 
to-day either.” 

“ More shame for you,” repeated Holloway : I’ll 
lay any bet on earth I get all you have to get in three 
minutes.” 

‘‘ Ah, you, to be sure,” said Oliver, in a tone of great 
humiliation ; but then you know what a difference 
there is between you and me.” 

Holloway misunderstood him ; and thinking he meant 
to allude to the difference in their age, instead of the 
difference in their abilities, answered sharply. 

When I was your age, do you think I was such a 
dunce as you are, pray ?” 

No, that I am sure you never were,” said Oliver j 
“ but perhaps you had some good father or mother, or 
somebody who taught you a little before you came to 
school.” 

“ I don’t remember any thing about that,” replied 
Holloway ; I don’t know who was so good as to teach 
me, but I know I was so good as to learn fast enough, 
which is a goodness, I’ve a notion, jiome folks will 
never have to boast of — so trot and fetch the bowl for 
me, do you hear, and set up the ninepins. You’ve 
sense enough to do that, have not you? and as for your 
lesson. I’ll drive that into your head by-and-by, if I can,” 
added he, rapping with his knuckles upon the little 
boy’s head. 

‘‘As to my lesson,” said the boy, putting aside his 
head from the insulting knuckles, “I had rather try 
and make it out myself, if I can.” 


24 


MORAL TALES. 


you can!” repeated Holloway, sneering; ‘^but 
we all know you can’t.” 

Why can’t he, Mr. Holloway ?” exclaimed Howard, 
with a raised voice, for he was no longer master of his 
indignation. 

“ Why can’t hel” repeated Holloway, looking round 
upon Howard with a mixture of surprise and insolence, 
“You must answer that question vourself, Mr, Howard : 
I say he can’t.” 

“And I say he can, and he shall,” replied Howard ; 
“and he shall have time to learn ; he’s willing, and. I’ll 
answer for it, able to learn ; and he shall not be called 
a dunce ; and he shall have time ; and he shall have 
justice.” 

“Shall! shall! shall!” retorted Holloway, vocife- 
rating with a passion of a different sort from Howard’s. 

Pray, sir, who allowed you to say shall to me ? and 
how dare you to talk in this here style to me about jus- 
tice? — and what business have you, I should be glad to 
know, to interfere between me and ray fag? What 
right have you to him or his time either? And if I 
choose to call him a dunce forty times a day, what 
then? he is a dunce, and he will be a dunce to the end 
of his days, I say, and who is there thinks proper to con- 
tradict me?” 

“I,” said Howard, firmly; “and I’ll do more than 
contradict you — I’ll prove that you are mistaken. 
Oliver, bring your book to me.” 

“Oliver, stir at your peril!” cried Holloway, clench- 
ing his fist with a menacing gesture : nobody shall 
give any help to my fag but myself, sir,” addei he to 
Howard. 

“I am not going to help him, I am only going to 
prove to him that he may do it without your help,” said 
Howard. 

The little boy sprang forward at these words for his 
book ; but his tormentor caught hold of him, and, pulling 
him back, said, “ He’s my fag ! do you recollect, sir, 
he’s my fag?” 


THE GOOD AUxVT. 25 

“■ Fag or no fag,’^ cried Howard, “ you shah not 
make a slave x)f him.” 

“I will I shall! I will!” cried Holloway, worKed 
up to the height of tyrannical fury: “ I will make a 
slave of him, if I choose it — a negro-slave, if I please 

At the sound of negro-slave, the little Creole burst 
into tears. Howard sprang forward to free him from 
his tyrant’s grasp: Holloway struck Howard a furious 
blow, which made him stagger backwards. 

Ay,” said Holloway, “ learn to stand your ground 
and fight before you meddle with me, I advise you.” 

Holloway was an experienced pugilist, and he knew 
that Howard was not; but before his defiance had es- 
caped his lips, he felt his blow returned, and a battle 
ensued. Howard fought with all his soul; but the body 
has something to do, as well as the soul, in the art of 
boxing, and his body was not yet a match for his adver- 
sary’s. After receiving more blows than Holloway, 
perhaps, could have borne, Howard was brought to the 
ground. 

“ Beg my pardon, and promise never to interfere be- 
tween me and my fag any more,” said Holloway, 
standing over him triumphant: “ ask my pardon.” 

“ Never,” said the fallen hero : “ I’ll fight you again, 
in the same cause, whenever you please; I can’t have 
a better ;” and he struggled to rise. 

Several boys had, by this time, gathered round the 
combatants, and many admired the fortitude 'and spirit 
of the vanquished, though it is extremely difficult to 
boys, if not to men, to sympathize with the beaten. 
Everybody called out that Howard had had enough for 
that night; and though he was willing to have re- 
newed the battle, his adversary was withheld by the 
omnipotence of public opinion. As to the cause of the 
combat, some few inquired into its merits, but many 
more were content with seeing the fray, and tvith hear- 
ing vaguely, that it began about Mr. Howard’s having 
interfered with Mr. Holloway’s fag in an impertinent 
manner. 

Howard’s face was so much disfigured, and his clothes 
c 


26 


MORAL TALES. 


were so much stained with blood, that he did not wish 
to present himself in such a deplorable spectacle before 
his aunt ; besides, no man likes to be seen, especially by a 
woman, immediately after he has been beaten; there- 
fore, he went directly to bed as soon as he got home, 
but desired that one of his companions, who boarded at 
Mrs. Howard^s, would, if his aunt inquired for him at 
supper, tell her “that he had been beaten in a boxing- 
match, but hoped to be more expert after another lesson 
or two,” This lady did not show her tenderness to her 
nephew by wailing over his disaster : on the contrary, she 
was pleased,to hear that he had fought in so good a cause. 

The next morning, as soon as Howard went to school, 
he saw little Oliver watching eagerly for him. 

“Mr. Howard — Charles,” said he, catching hold of 
him; “ I’ve one word to say : let him call me dunce, or 
slave, or negro, or what he will, don’t you mind any 
more about me — I can’t bear to see it,” said the affec- 
tionate child: “I’d rather have the blows myself, only 
I know I could not bear them as you did.” 

Oliver turned aside his head, and Howard, in a play- 
ful voice, said, “ Why, my little Oliver, I did not think 
you were such a coward : you must not make a coward 
of me.” f 

No sooner did the boys go out to play in the evening, 
than Howard called to Oliver, in Holloway’s hearing, 
and said, “ If you want any assistance from me, re- 
member, I’m ready.” 

“You may be ready, but you are not able,” cried 
Holloway, “to give him any ^ assistance — therefore, 
you’d better be quiet: remember last night.” 

“ I do remember it perfectly,” said Howard, calmly. 

And do you want any more? — Come, then. I’ll tell 
you what. I’ll box with you every day, if you please, 
and when you have conquered me, you shall have my 
fag all to yourself, if you please ; but till then, you 
shall have nothing to do with him.” 

“I take you at your word,” said Howard, and a 
second battle began. As we do not delight in fields of 
battle, or hope to excel, like Homer, in describing variety 


THE GOOD AUx\T. 


27 


of wounds, we snail content ourselves with relating that, 
after five pitched battles, in which Oliver’s champion 
received bruises of all shapes and sizes, and of every 
shade of black, blue, green, and yellow, his uncoii- 
quered spirit still maintained the justice of his cause, 
and with as firm a voice as at first he challenged his 
constantly victorious antagonist to a sixth combat. 

“ I thought you had learned by this time,” said the 
successful pugilist, that Augustus Holloway is not to 
be conquered by one of woman breed.’’ To this taunt 
Howard made no reply ; but whether it urged him to 
superior exertion, or whether the dear-bought experi- 
ence of the five preceding days had taught him all the 
caution that experience only can teach, we cannot de- 
termine; but, to the surprise of all the spectators, and 
to the lively joy of Oliver, the redoubted Holloway was 
brought, after an obstinate struggle, fairly to the ground. 
Everybody sympathized with the generous victor, who 
immediately assisted his fallen adversary to rise, and 
offered his hand in token of reconciliation. Augustus 
Holloway, stunned by his fall, and more by his defeat, 
returned from the field of battle as fast as the crowd 
would let him, who stopped him continually with their 
impertinent astonishment and curiosity; for though the 
boasted unconquerable hero had pretty evidently re- 
ceived a black eye, not one person would believe it 
without looking close in his face; and many would not 
trust the information of their own senses, but pressed 
to hear the news confirmed by the reluctant lips of the 
unfortunate Augustus. In the mean time, little Oliver, a 
fag no longer, exulting in his liberty, clapped his joyful 
hands, sang, and capered round his deliverer. “And 
DOW,” said he, fixing his grateful, affectionate eyes 
upon Howard; “you will suffer no more for me; 
and. If you’ll let me. I’ll be your fag. Do, will you 1 
pray let me! I’ll run of your errands before you can 
say one, two, three, and away : only whistle for me,” 
said he, whistling, “ and I’ll hear you, wherever I am. 
If you only hold up your finger when you want me. I’m 
sure I shall see it; and I’ll always set up your nine- 


28 


MORAL TALES. 


pins, and fly for your ball, let me be doing what I 
will. May 1 be your fag 7’^ 

“Be my friend!’^ said Howard, taking Oliver in his 
arms, with emotion which prevented him from articulat- 
ing, any other words. The word friend went to the lit- 
tle Creole’s heart, and he clung to Howard in silence. 
To complete his happiness, little Oliver this day obtained 
permission to board at Mrs. Howard’s, so that he was 
now constantly to be with his protector. Howard’s 
friendship was not merely the sudden enthusiasm of a 
moment; it was the steady, persevering choice of a 
manly mind, not the caprice of a schoolboy. Regularly, 
every evening, Oliver brought his books to his friend, 
who never was too busy to attend to him. Oliver was 
delighted to find that he understood Howard’s manner 
of explaining : his own opinion of himsell rose with the 
opinion which he saw his instructor had of his abilities. 
He was convinced that he was not doomed to be a dunce 
for life; his ambition was rekindled: his industry was 
encouraged by hope, and rewarded by success. He no 
longer expected daily punishment, and that worst of all 
punishments, disgrace. His heart was light, his spirits 
rose, his countenance brightened with intelligence, and 
resumed its natural vivacity; to his, masters and his 
companions he appeared a new creature. What has 
inspired you 7” said one of his masters to him one day, 
surprised at the rapid development of his understanding 
— “what has inspired you 7” 

“ My good genius,” said the little boy, pointing to 
Howard. 

Howard had some merit in giving up a good deal of 
his time to Oliver, because he knew the value of time, 
and he had not quite so much as he wished for himself. 
The day was always too short for him ; every moment 
was employed ; his active mind went from one thing to 
another, as if it did not know the possibility of idleness, 
and as if he had no idea of any recreation but in a change 
of employment. Not that he was always poring over 
books, but his mind Avas active, let him be about what 
he would ; and, as his exertions were always voluntary. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


29 


there was not that opposition in his opinion between the 
ideas of play and work, which exists so strongly in the 
imaginations of those schoolboys who are driven to 
their tasks by fear, and who escape from them to that 
delicious exercise of their free-will which they call play. 


“ Constraint, that sweetens liberty,” 


often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false 
idea to its nature. — Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, 
and a nameless train of mistaken notions of pleasure, 
are often classed, in a young man’s mind, under the 
general head of Uberly. 

Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled 
to our recollection when Ave want to personify an ill- 
educated young man, was, in the strictest sense of the 
word, a schoolboy — a clever schoolboy — a good scholar 
— a good historian : he wrote a good hand — read with 
fluency — declaimed ata public exhibition of Westminster 
orators Avith no bad grace and emphasis, and had ahvays 
extempore Avords, if not extempore sense, at command. 
But still he Avas but a schoolboy. His father thought 
him a man and more than a man. Alderman HolloAvay 
prophesied to his friends that his son Augustus Avould be 
one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry 
to have him ready to enter the college, and had a borough 
secure for him at the proper age. The proper age, he 
regretted, that parliament had fixed to twenty-one ; for 
the alderman was impatient to introduce his young 
statesman to the house, especially as he saAV honours, 
perhaps a title, in the distant perspective of his son’s ad- 
vancement. 

While this vision occupied the father’s imagination, 
a vision of another sort played upon the juvenile fancy 
of his son — a vision of a gig ; for, though Augustus was 
but a schoolboy, he had very manly ideas — if those ideas 
be manly Avhich most young men have. Lord Rawson, 
the son of the Earl of Marrvborough, had lately appear- 
ed to Augustus in a gig. The young Lord RaAVSon had 
lately been a schoolboy at Westminster like Augustus : 

c 2 17 


30 


MORAL TALES. 


he was. now nlaster of himself and three horses at coh 
lege. Alderman Holloway had lent the Earl of Marry- 
borough certain moneys, the interest of which the earl 
scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman valued him- 
self upon being a shrewd man ; he looked to one of the 
earl’s boroughs as a security for his principal, and from 
longsighted political motives, encouraged an intimacy be- 
tween the young nobleman and his son. It was one of 
those useful friendships, one of those fortunate con- 
nexions, which some parents consider as the peculiar 
advantage of a public school. Lord Rawson’s example 
already powerfully operated upon his young friend’s 
mind, and this intimacy was most likely to have a de- 
cisive influence upon the future destiny of Augustus. 
Augustus was the son of an Alderman. Lord Rawson 
was two years older than Holloway — had left school — 
had been at college — had driven both a curricle and a 
barouche, and had gone through all the gradations of 
coachmanship — was a man, and had seen Ihe world. How 
many things to excite the ambition of a schoolboy! 
Augustus was impatient for the moment when he might 
be what he admired.” The drudgery of Westminster, 
the confinement, the ignominious appellation of a boy, 
were all insupportable to this yotmg man. He had ob- 
tained from his father a promise that he should leave 
school in a few months; but these months appeared to 
him an age. It was rather a misfortune to Holloway 
that he was so far advanced in his Latin and Greek 
studies, for he had the less to do at School; his school- 
business quickly despatched, his time hung upon his 
hands. He never thought of literature as an amusement 
for his leisure hours ; he had no idea of improving him- 
self farther in general science and knowdedge. He was 
told that his education was nearly at an end ; he believed 
it was qnite finished, and he was glad of il, and glad it 
was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his 
hands, during this intermediate state at Westminster, he 
heartily regretted that he could not commence his manly 
career by learning to drive — to drive a curricle. Lord 
Rawson had carried him down to the country, the last 


THE GOOD AUIv^T. 


31 


summer vacation, in his dog-cart, driven random-tandem. 
The reins had touched his fingers. The whip had been 
committed to his hand, and he longed for a repetition of 
these pleasures. From the windows of the house in 
Westminster where he boarded, Holloway at every idle 
moment lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage and of 
every coachman that passed. 

Mr. Supine, Mr. Flolloway’s tutor, used, at these leisure 
moments, to employ himself with practising upon the 
German flute, and was not sorry to be relieved from his 
pupiPs conversation. Sometimes it was provoking to 
the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclama- 
tions of his pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his 
music-book, and contented himself with recommending 
a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway’s raptures about 
horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand, 
offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from 
nature and fashion, indolent; the trouble of reproving or 
of guiding his pupil was too much for him; besides, he 
■was sensible that the task of watching, contradicting, and 
thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway’s time 
of life, would have been productive of the most disagree- 
able scenes of altercation, and could possibly have no 
effect upon the gentleman’s character, which he pre- 
sumed, was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr. and 
Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improve- 
njents. Mr. Supine was on the best terms imaginable 
with the whole family, and thought it his business to 
keep himself well with his pupil; especially as he had 
some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway’s interest 
with Lord Rawson, and through Lord Rawson’s influence 
with a young nobleman who was just going abroad, he 
might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour upon 
the continent. His taste for music and painting had 
almost raised him to the rank of a connoisseur: an ama- 
teur he modestly professed himself, and he was fre- 
quently stretched in elegant ease upon a sofa, already in 
revery in Italy, while his pupil was conversing out of 
the window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver 
of a stage coach in the neighbourhood. Young Hollo- 


32 


MORAI- TALES. 


way was almost as familiar with this ccachman as with 
his father’s groom, who, during his visits at home, sup- 
plied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. 
The stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the 
ambition of Augustus, that his desire to learn to drive 
became uncontrollable. The coachman, partly by en- 
treaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, 
was prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could 
manage it without his tutor’s knowledge, he should 
ascend to the honours of the box, and at least have the 
satisfaction of seeing some good driving. 

Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at 
which Mrs. Holloway was expected, and at which her 
daughter Miss Angelina Holloway was engaged to per- 
form. Mr. Supine’s judicious applause of this young 
lady’s execution was one of his greatest recommenda- 
tions to the whole family, at least to the female part of 
it : he could not, therefore, decline an invitation to this 
concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and de- 
sired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, add- 
ing, with his usual politeness, that “music was the 
greatest bore in nature, and especially Angelina’s mu- 
sic.” For the night of the concert Holloway had ar- 
ranged his plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine 
dressed, and then practised upon the German flute till 
towards nine o’clock in the evening. Holloway heard 
the stage-coach rattling through the street, while his tu- 
tor was yet in the middle of a long concerto : the coach- 
man was to stop at the public-house, about ten doors off 
to take up parcels and passengers, and there he was to 
wait for Holloway ; but he had given him notice that he 
could not wait many minutes. 

“You may practise the rest without book, in the 

chair, as you are going to street, quite at your ease, 

Mr. Supine,” said Holloway to his tutor. 

“ Faith, so I can, and I’ll adopt your idea, for it’s quite a 
novel thing, and may take, if the fellows will only carry 
one steady. Good night: I’ll mention your sore throat 
properly to Mrs. Holloway.” 

No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


33 


raised upon the chairmen’s shoulders, than his pupil 
recovered from his sore throat, ran down to the place 
where the stage was waiting, seized the stage-coachman’s 
down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself tri- 
umphantly upon the coach-box. 

‘‘Never saw a cleverer fellow,” said the coachman: 
“ now we are off.” 

“ Give me the reins, then,” said Holloway. 

“Not till we are out o’ town said the coachman: 
“when we get off the stones, we’ll see a little of your 
driving.” 

When they got on the turnpike-road, Holloway impa- 
tiently seized the reins, and was as much gratified by this 
coachman’s praises of his driving as ever he had been 
by the applauses he had received for his Latin verses. 
A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a 
young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar 
company, but it puts him entirely in the power of his 
companions, whoever they may happen to be. Augustus 
Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to all in- 
tents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and 
gloried in catching, all his companions slang, and with 
his language caught all his ideas. The coachman talked 
with rapture of some young gentleman’s horses which 
he had lately seen ; and said that, if he was a gentleman, 
there was nothing he should pride himself so much upon 
as his horses. Holloway, as he was a gentleman, deter- 
mined to have the finest horses that could be had for 
money, as soon as he should become his own master. 

“ And then,” continued the coachman, “if I was a 
gentleman born, I’d never be shabby in the matters of 
wages and perquisites to them that be to look after my 
horses, seeing that horses can’t be properly looked after 
for nothing.” 

Certainly not,” agreed the young gentleman: “my 
friend. Lord Rawson, I know, has a prodigious smart 
groom, and so will I all in good time.” 

“ To be sure,” said the coachman ; “but it was not m 
regard to grooms I was meaning, so much as in regard to 
a coachman, which, I take i , is one of the first persons 


34 


MORAL TALES. 


to be considered in a really grand family, seeing how 
great a trust is placed in him — (mind, sir, if you please, 
the turn at the corner, it’s rather sharp) — seeing how 
great a trust is placed in him, as I was observing, a good 
coachman is worth his weight in gold.” 

Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this 
observation ; for the conversation was now interrupted 
by the sound of a postchaise, which drove rapidly by. 

^‘The job and four!” exclaimed the coachman, with 
as many oaths “ as the occasion required.” 

Why did you let it pass us 1” And with enthusiasm, 
which forgot all ceremony, he snatched the whip from 
his young companion, and, seizing the reins, drove at a 
furious rate. One of the chaise postillions luckily dropped 
his whip. They passed the job and four; and the 
coachman, having redeemed his honour, resigned once 
more the reins to Holloway, upon his promising not to 
let the job and four get ahead of them. The postillions 
were not without ambition : the men called to each other 
and to their horses ; the horses caught some portion of 
their masters’ spirit, and began to gain upon the coach. 
The passengers in the coach put out their heads, and fe- 
male voices screamed in vain. All these terrors, in- 
creased the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the 
road, the rival coachman and postillions hazarded every 
thing for precedency. Holloway was desperate in pro- 
portion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted to 
snatch the reins, but missing his grasp, he shortened 
those of the off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong 
way : the coach ran upon a bank, and was overturned. 
Holloway was dismayed and silent ; the coachman 
poured forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend 
nor foe ; the complaints of the female passengers were 
so incoherent, and their fears operated so much upon 
their imagination, that, in the first moments of confu- 
sion, each asserted that she had broken either an arm or 
a leg, or fractured her skull. 

The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning 
of the evening, was now under a cloud, and the darkness 
increased the impatience of the various cornplainers ; at 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


35 


length a lantern was brought from the turnpike-house, 
which was near the spot where the accident happened. 
As soon as the light came, the ladies looked at each 
other, and after they had satisfied themselves that no 
material injury had been done to their clothes, and that 
their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to re- 
cover from their terrors, and were brought to allow that 
all their limbs were in good preservation, and that they 
had been too hasty in declaring that their skulls were 
fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at all this, and 
joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion. 
The coach was lifted up; the passengers got in; the 
coachman and Holloway mounted the box, when, just 
as they were setting off the coachman heard a voice 
crying to him to stop. He listened, and the voice, which 
seemed to be that of a person in great pain, again called 
for assistance. 

It’s the mulatto woman,” said the coachman : we 
forgot her in the bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, 
and stand at the horses’ heads, while I see after her,” 
added the coachman, addressing himself to the man who 
had come from the turnpike-house. 

I shan’t stir for a mulatto, I promise you,” said 
Holloway, brutally : she was on the top of the coach, 
wasn’t she? She must have had a fine hoist!” 

The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she 
had been thrown from the top of the coach into a ditch, 
which had stones at the bottom of it. She had not been 
able to make herself heard by anybody, while the ladies’ 
loud complaints continued ; nor had she been able long 
to call for any assistance, for she had been stunned by 
her fall, and had not recovered her senses for many mi- 
nutes. She was not able to stand ; but when the coach- 
man held her up, she put her hand to her head, and in 
broken English, said she felt too ill to travel further that 
night. 

You shall have an inside place, if you’ll pluck up 
your heart; and you’ll find yourself better with the mo- 
tion of the coach.” 

‘‘What, is she hurt — the mulatto woman? — I say. 


36 


MORAL TALES. 


coachy, make haste,” cried Holloway, I want to be 
off.” 

“ So do I,” said the coachman, “but we are not likely 
to be off yet: here’s this here poor woman can’t stand, 
and is all over bruises, and won’t get into the inside of 
the coach, though I offered her a place.” 

Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all 
who were not so rich as himself could be bought off for 
money, pulled out a handful of silver, and leaning from 
the coach-box, held it towards the fainting woman ; — 
“ Here’s a shilling for every bruise at least, my good 
woman — but the woman did not hear him, for she 
was very faint. The coachman was forced to carry her 
to the turnpike-house, where he left her, telling the peo- 
ple of the house that a return chaise would call for her 
in an hour’s time, and would carry her either to the next 
stage, or back to town, whichever she pleased. Hollo- 
way’s diversion for the rest of the night was spoiled, not 
because he had too much sympathy with the poor wo- 
man that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so 
long by the accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving 
into the town of ^ He had intended to have gone 

the whole stage, and to have returned in the job and 
four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out 
by his friend the coachman ; but the postillions in the 
job and four having won the race, and made the best of 
their way, had now returned, and met the coach about 
two miles from the turnpike-house. 

“ So,” said Holloway, “ I must descend, and get home, 
before Mr. Supine wakens from his first sleep.” 

Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire af- 
ter the mulatto ; or rather one of the postillions stopped 
as he had been desired by the coachman, to take her up 
to town, if she was able to go that night. 

The postillion, after he had spoken to the woman, 
came to the chaise-door, and told Holloway “ that he 
could hardly understand what she said, she talked such 
outlandish English; and that he could not make out 
where she wanted to be carried to.” 


THE GOOD AUNT. 37 

Ask the name of some of her friends in town,’^ cried 
Holloway, and don’t let her keep us here all night.” 

‘‘ She has no friends, as I can find,” replied the pos- 
tillion, ^^nor acquaintance neither.” 

Well, who does she belong to then?” 

^•^She belongs to nobody — she’s quite a stranger in 
these parts, and doesn’t know no more than a child 
where to go in all London; she only knows the Chris- 
tian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she 
says.” 

‘‘ What would she have us do with her, then?” said 
Holloway. ‘‘Drive on, for I shall be late.” 

The postillion, more humane than Holloway, ex- 
claimed, “No, master, no! — it’s a sin to leave her upon 
the road this ways, though she’s no Christian, as we 
are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger 
myself in London, without a sixpence to bless myself; 
60 I know Avhat it is, master.” 

The good-natured postillion returned to the mulatto 
woman. “Mistress,” said he, “ I’d fain see ye safe 
home, if you could but think of the t’other name of that 
gardener that you mentioned lodging with ; because 
there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should 
never find your Paul, as you don’t know neither the 
name of his street — but I’ll tell ye now all the streets 
I’m acquainted with, and that’s a many: do you stop 
me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you’re sad- 
ly bruised, and I won’t see you left this ways on the 
road.” 

He then named several streets ; the mulatto woman 
stopped him at one name which she recollected to be the 
name of the street in which the gardener lived. The 
woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard the 
street in which he lived named, said she knew this gar- 
dener; that he had a large garden about a mile off, and 
that he came from London early almost every morning 
xwith his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she ad- 
vised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that 
night, and to send to ask the gardener to come on to the 
turnpike-house for her in the morning. The postillion 


38 


( 


MORAL TALES. 


promised to go to the gardener’s the first break of 
day.” The woman raised her head to bless him; and 
the impatient Holloway loudly called to him to return to 
nis horses, swearing that he would not give him one 
farthing for himself if he did not. 

The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection 
kept him in pain ; but Holloway never measured or es- 
timated his pleasures and his pains; therefore he never 
discovered that, even upon the most selfish calculation, 
he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a 
coach-box for one hour. 

It was two o’clock in the morning before the chaise 
arrived in town, when he was set down at the house at 
which the stage-coach put up, walked home, got in at 
his bedchamber window — his bed chamber was upon 
the ground-door. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his 
pupil triumphed in his successful frolic. 


While Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again, 
and again overturning stage coaches, young Howard, in 
his less manly dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of 
Westminster school, advancing towards him, at a public 
examination,'' with a prize medal in his hand, which 
turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into 
the face of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a 
striking likeness of his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smi- 
led upon him ; and then changed into the head of little 
Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just 
at the instant, Howard awoke, and opening his eyes, 
saw Oliver’s face close to him, laughing heartily. 

“Why,” exclaimed Oliver, “you seized my head 
with both your hands when I came to waken you : what 
could you be dreaming of, Charles?” 

“■ I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right 
glad to have hold of you,” said Howard, laughing; “but 


THE GOOD AUNT. 39 

I shall not get my medal by dreaming about it. What 
o’clock is it ? I shall be ready in half a second.” 

‘I Ay,” said Oliver, “ I won’t tell you what o’clock it 
is till you’re dressed: make haste; I’ve been up this 
half-hour, and I’ve got every thing ready, and I’ve car- 
ried the little table, and all your books, and the pen and 
ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun 
shines upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you’ll 
have a full hour to work, for it’s only half after five.” 

At the back of Mrs. Howard’s house there was a lit- 
tle garden ; at the end of the garden was a sort of root- 
house, which Oliver had cleaned out, and which he 
dignified by the title of the seat. There were some pots 
of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard’s 
permission, by a gardener, who lived next door to her, 
and who frequently came to work in her garden. Oli- 
ver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead 
leaves, while Howard was writing at the little table 
which had been prepared for him. Howard had at this 
time two grand works in hand, on which he was en- 
thusiastically intent : he was translating the little French 
book which the traveller had given to him; and he was 
writing an essay for a prize. The young gentlemen at 
Westminster were engaged in writing essays for- a peri- 
odical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize 
medal as the reward for that essay, wdiich he, and a 
jury of critics to be chosen from among the boys them- 
selves, should pronounce to be the best composition. 

I won’t talk to you, I won’t interrupt you,” said 
Oliver to How^ard ; but only answer me one question : 
what is your essay about?” 

Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his 
head. 

I assure you I did not loolr, though I longed to peep 
at it this morning before you were up. Pray, Charles 
do you think I shall ever be able to write essays?” 

“ To be sure,” said Howard, ‘‘ why not.” 

“^Ah,” said Oliver with a sigh, “because I’ve no 
genius, you know.” 

“ But,” said tioward, “ have you not found out that 


40 


MORAL TALES 


you could do a great many things that you thought you 
could not do?^’ 

‘‘Ay, thank you for that : but then, you know, those 
are the sort of things which can be done without ge- 
nius.’^ 

“And what are the things,’’ replied Howard, “ which 
cannot be done without genius?” 

“ O, a great, great many, I believe,” sai^ Oliver: 
“ you know Holloway said so.” 

“ But we are not forced lo believe it, because Hollo- 
way said so, are we? Besides, a great many things 
may mean any thing, buckling your shoes, or putting 
on your hat, for instance.” 

Oliver laughed at this, and said, “ These, to be sure, 
are not the sort of things that can’t be done without 
genius.” 

“What are the sort of things?” repeated Howard. 
“ Let us, now I’ve the pen in my hand, make a list of 
them.” 

“ Take a longer bit of paper.” 

“ No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think 
It will. What shall I put first? — make haste for I am in 
a hurry.” 

“Well — writing, then — writing, I’m sure, requires 
genius.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because I never could write, and I’ve often tried 
and tried to write something, but I never could ; be- 
cause I’ve no genius for it.” 

“What did you try to write?” said Howard. 

“ Why, letters,” said Oliver : “ my uncle and my 
aunt, and my two cousins desired I would write to them 
regularly once a fortnight; but I never can make out a 
letter, and I’m always sorry when letter-writing day 
comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long, 
I can find nothing ;to say. I used always to beg « begin- 
ning from somebody ; but then, when I’ve got over the 
beginning, that’s only three or four lines ; and if I stretch 
it out ever so much, it won’t make a whole letter; and 
what can I put in the middle? There’s nothing but 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


41 


that I am well, and hope they are all well; or else, that 
I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear uncle, and am 
fcn'ward in my English. The end I can manage well 
enough, because there’s duty and love to send to every 
body ; and about the post is just going out, and believe me 
to be in haste, your dutiful and c^ectionate nephew. But 
then,” continued little Oliver, “ this is all nonsense, I 
know, and Pm ashamed to write such bad letters. Now • 
your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment 
you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a 
nice, long, good letter, while I am writing, ‘ dear 
uncle John,’ and that’s what I call having a genius for 
writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you 
write good letters when you were of my age?” 

I never wrote any letters at your age,” said Howard 

O, how happy you must have been ! But then, if 
you never learned, how comes it that you can write 
them now? How can you always find something to 
say?” 

I never write but when I have something to say ; 
and you know, when you had something to say last post 
about Easter holydays, your pen, Oliver, went scratch, 
scratch, scratch, as fast as anybody’s.” 

‘^So it did,” cried Oliver; “but then the thing is. 
Pm forced to write when Pve nothing about the holy- 
days to say.” 

“ Forced?” 

“Yes, because Pm afraid my uncle and cousins should 
be angry if I didn’t write.” 

“ Pm sure Pm much obliged,” said Howard, “ to my 
dear aunt, who never forced me to write: she always 
shid, ‘ Never write, Charles, but when you like it ;’ and 
I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is, any 
thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any sub- 
ject, or any questions to ask which I very much wished 
to have answered, then you know I could easily write, 
because I had nothing to do but to write down just the 
Avords which I should have said if I had been speak- 
ing.” 

“ But I thought writing was quite a different thing 
d2 18 


42 


MORAL TALES. 


from speaking, because in writing there must be sen- 
tences, and long sentences, and fine sentences, such as 
there are in books.” 

In some books,” said Howard, “ but not in all.” 

Besides,” continued Oliver, “ one person’s speaking 
is quite different from another person’s speaking. Now 
I believe I make use of a great number of odd words, 
and vulgar expressions, and bad English, which I learned 
from being with the servants, I believe, at home. You 
have never talked to servants, Charles, I dare say, for 
you have not one of their words.” 

“No,” said Charles, “never; and my aunt took a 
great deal of pains to prevent me from hearing any of 
their conversation ; therefore it was impossible that I 
should catch — ” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appear- 
ance of old Paul the gardener. 

“ So, Paul,” cried little Oliver, “ I’ve been doing your 
work for you this morning : I’ve watered all the gera- 
niums, and put the Indian corn in the sun ; what kept 
you so late in your bed this fine morning, Paul 1 fie, 
Paul!” 

“You would not say fie, master,’’ replied Paul, ‘^if 
you knew how early I had been out of my bed, this 
morning : I was abroad afore sunrise, so I was, mas- 
ter.” 

‘^And why didn’t you come to work then, Paul? 
You shall not have the watering-pot till you tell me: 
don’t look so grave about it; you know you must smile 
when I please, Paul.” 

“I can’t smile just now, master,” said old Paul, but 
he smiled, and then told Oliver, that “ the reason he 
could not smile was, that he was a little sick at heart, 
with just coming from the sight of a poor soul who had 
been sadly bruised by a fall from the top of the stage 
which was overturned last night. She was left all night 
at the pike, and as she had no other friends, she sent foi 
me by a return chay-boy, and I went for her, and brought 
her home in my covered cart to my good woman, which 
she liked with good reason, better ten to one than the 


THE GOOD AUNT, 43 

Stage. And she’s terribly black and blue, and does not 
seem quite right in her head to my fancy.” 

‘‘ I wish we could do something for her,” said How- 
ard. As soon as Mr. Russell is up, Pll ask him to go 
with us to see her. We will call as we go by to school 
this morning.” 

But, master,” said the gardener, I should warn ye 
beforehand, that mayhap you mayn’t pity her so much, 
for she’s rather past her best days; and bad must have 
been her best, for she’s swarthy, and not like one of this 
country ; she comes from over the seas, and they call 
her a — a — not quite a negro.” 

‘‘A mulatto! — I like her the better,” cried Oliver, 
for my nurse was a mulatto. I’ll go and waken Mr. 
Russell this instant, for I’m sure he’ll not be angry.” 
He ran away to Mr. Russell, who was not angry at be- 
ing awakened, but dressed himself almost as expedi- 
tiously as Oliver wished, and set out immediately with 
his pupils, delighted to be the companion of their bene- 
volent schemes, instead of being the object of their 
fear and hatred. Tutors may inspire aflection, even 
though they have the misfortune to be obliged to teach 
Greek and Latin.* * 

When the boy^ arrived at the gardener’s, they found 
the poor mulatto woman lying upon a bed, in a small 
close room, which was so full of smoke, when they 
came in, that they could hardly breathe; the little win- 
dow that let in but a glimmering light, could not with- 
out difficulty be opened. The poor woman made but 
few complaints; she appeared to be most concerned at 
the thoughts of being a burden to the good old gardener 
and his wife. She said that she had been long in Eng- 
land ; that she came to London in hopes of finding a 
family who had been very kind to her in her youth ; but 
that after inquiry at the house where they had formerly 
lived she could hear nothing of them. After a great 
deal of trouble, she discovered that a West India gen 

* Vide Hr. Johnson’s assertion, to the contrary in Mrs. Piozzi’s 
Anecdotes. 


44 


MORAL TALES. 


tleman, who had known her abroad, was now at Bath ; 
but she had spent the last farthing of her money, and 
she was therefore unable to undertake the journey. She 
had brought over with her, she said, some foreign seeds 
of flowers, which her young mistress used to be fond of 
when she was a child, which she had kept till hunger 
obliged her to offer them to a gardener for a loaf of 
bread. The gardener to whom she offered them was old 
Paul, who took compassion upon her distress, lodged 
her for a week, and at last paid for an outside place for 
her upon the Bath coach. There was such an air of 
truth and simplicity in this woman, that Mr. Russell, 
more experienced than his pupils, believed her story at 
once, as implicitly as they did. “ O,’^ exclaimed little 
Oliver, *^‘1 have but this half-crown for her: I wish 
Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; Pll ask 
him for it again to-day ; and will you come with us 
here again, this evening, Mr. Russell, that I may bring 
it then V’ ' 

Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fort- 
night in which the mulatto woman was now lying, and 
paid old Paul the gardener for it, promising at the same 
time to supply her with food. The gardener’s wife, at 
the poor woman’s earnest request, promised that as 
soon as she was able to sit up, she would get her some 
coarse plain work to do. 

But,” said. Oliver, how can she see to work in 
this smoke? Pm sure it makes my eyes water so that 
I can hardly bear it, though I have been in it scarcely 
ten minutes.” 

I wish,” exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, 
"that this chimney could be cured of smoking.” 

O, welladay,” said the gardener, we must put up 
with it as it is, for Pve had doctors to it,' at one time or 
another, that have cost me a power of money ; but, after 
all it’s as bad as ever, and my good dame never lights a 
fire in it this fine spring weather; howsomever, she 
(pointing to the mulatto woman) is so chilly, coming 
from a country that, by all accounts, is a hot-house 
compared with ours, that she can’t sleep o’ nights, or 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


45 


live o’ days without a small matter of fire, which she’s 
welcome to; though you see it almost fills the house 
with smoke.” 

Howard, during the gardener’s speech, had been try- 
ing to recollect where it was that he had lately seen some 
essay upon smoky chimneys ; and he suddenly exclaimed. 

It was in Dr. Franklin’s works — was it not, Mr. Rus- 
sell I” 

What?” said Mr. Russell, smiling. 

“ That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I 
would skip over, the other day, because I had nothing 
to do with it, and I thought I should not understand. 
Don’t you remember telling me, sir, that I had better not 
skip it, because it might some time or other be useful to 
me ? I wish I could get the book now ; I would take 
pains to understand it, because, perhaps, I might find 
out how this poor man’s chimney might be cured of 
smoking. As for his window, I know how that can be 
easily mended, because I once watched a man who was 
hanging some windows for my aunt — I’ll get some sash- 
line.” 

Do you recollect what o’clock it is, my good friend?” 
said Mr. Russell, holding out his watch to Howard. 
‘^We cannot wait till you are perfect master of the 
theory of smoky chimneys and the practice of hanging 
windows ; it is time that we should be gone.” Mr. 
Russell spoke this with an air of raillery, as he usually 
did when he was particularly pleased. 

As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated 
his request, that Mr. Russell would come again in the 
evening, that he might have an opportunity of giving 
the poor woman his half-guinea. Mr. Russell promised 
him that he would ; but he at the same time added, all 
charity, my dear Oliver, does not consist in giving 
money — it is easy for a man to put his hand in his 
pocket, and take out a few shillings 4o give to any person 
in distress.” 

I wish,” said Oliver, “ I was able to do more ! what 
can I do? I’ll think of something. Howard, will you 
think of something that I can do ? But I must see about 

18 * 


46 


MORAL TALES. 


my Latin lesson first, for I had not time to look it over 
this morning before I came out.’’ 

When they got back, the business of the day for some 
hours suspended all thoughts of the mulatto woman ; 
but in the first interval of leisure, Oliver went in search 
of Mr. Holloway, to ask for his half-guinea. Holloway 
had a crowd of his companions round him, whom he 
seemed to be entertaining with some very diverting story, 
for they were laughing violently when little Oliver first 
came up to them : but they no sooner perceived him 
than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Holloway 
first lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing 
that Oliver still stood his ground, he asked him, in his 
usual peremptory tone, what might be his business? 
Oliver drew him aside, and asked him to pay him the 
half-guinea. “ The half-guinea?” repeated Holloway : 
^'man, you talk of the half-guinea as if there was but 
one half-guinea in the world : you shall have the half- 
guinea, for I hate to be dunned — stay, I believe I have 
no half-aL-gmnea. about me : you can’t give me two half- 
guineas for a guinea, can ye?” 

Me!” 

Well, then, you must wait till I can get change.” 

Must I wait? But I really want it for a particular 
reason this evening : I wish you could give it me now — 
you know you promised ; but I don’t like putting people 
m mind of their promises, and I would not ask you 
about the money, only that I really want it.” 

‘‘Want it! nonsense: what can you want money 
for, such a little chap as you? I’ll lay you any wager, 
your particular reason, if the truth was told, is, that you 
can’t resist the tart-woman.” 

“ I can resist the tart- woman,” cried Oliver, proudly ; 
“ I have a much better use for my money: but I don’t 
want to boast, neither; only, Holloway, do give me the 
half-guinea. Shall I run and ask somebody to give you 
two half-guineas for a guinea?” 

“ No, no. I’ll not be dunned into paying you. If yon 
had not asked me for it, I should have given it you to- 


THE GOOD AUNT. 47 

night: but since you could not trust to my honour, 
you’ll please to wait till to-morrow morning.” 

‘‘ But I did trust to your honour for a whole month.” 
month! a great while, indeed; then trust to it a 
day longer; and if you ask me for the money to-morrow, 
you sha’nt have it till the next day. I’ll leach you not 
to be such a little dun : nobody that has any spirit can 
bear to be dunned, particularly for such small sums. I 
thought you had been above such meanness, or, I pro- 
mise you, I should never have borrowed your half- 
guinea,” added Holloway; and he left his unfortunate 
creditor to reflect upon the new ideas of meanness and 
spirit which had been thus artfully thrown out. 

Oliver was roused from his reflections by his friend 
Howard. Mr. Russell is ready to go with us to the 
gardener’s again,” said Howard: “ have you a mind to 
come?” 

‘‘ A great mind ; but I am ashamed, for I’ve not got 
my half-guinea which I lent.” Here his newly-ac- 
quired fear of meanness checked Oliver; and without 
con^plaining of his debtor’s want of punctuality, he 
added, ‘‘ but I should like to see the poor woman, though, 
for all that.” • 

They set out, but stopped in their way at a book- 
seller’s, where Howard inquired for that essay of Dr. 
Franklin on smoky chimneys, which he was impatient 
to see. This bookseller was well acquainted with Mr. 
Russell. Howard had promised to give the bookseller 
the translation of the little French book which we for- 
merly mentioned ; and the bookseller, on his part, was 
very obliging in furnishing Howard with any books he 
wanted. 

Howard was deep in the essay on smoky chimneys, 
and examining the references in the print belonging to 
it, while Mr. Russell was looking over the prints in the 
Encyclopedia, with little Oliver. They were all so in- 
tent upon what they were about, that they did not per- 
ceive the entrance of Holloway and Mr. Supine. Mr. 
Supine called in merely to see what Mr. Russell could 
be looking at with so much appearance of interest. The 


48 MOR^L TALES. 

indolent are always curious, though they will not al 
ways exert themselves even to gratify their curiosity. 

“ Only the Encyclopedia prints,’’ said Supine, look- 
ing over Mr. Russell’s shoulder: “I thought you had 
gat something new.” 

“ Only smoky chimneys,” Exclaimed Holloway, 
looking over Howard’s shoulders ; what upon earth, 
Howard, can you find so entertaining in smoky chim- 
neys? Are you turned chimney-doctor or chimney- 
sweeper? This will be an excellent thing for Lord 
Rawson, won’t it, Mr. Supine ? We’ll tell it to him on 
Thursday ; it will be a good joke for us for half the day. 
Pray, Doctor Charles Howard,” continued the wit, 
with mock solemnity, “ do you go up the chimneys 
yourself?” 

Howard took this raillery with so much good-humour 
that Holloway looked quite disappointed; and Mr. 
Supine, in a careless tone, cried, “ I take it, reading 
such things as luese will scarcely improve your style, 
sir: will they, think ye, Mr. Russell?” 

“I am not sure,” replied Mr. Russell, ^'that Mr. 
Howard’s first object in reading is to improve his style ; 
but,” added he, turning to the titlepage, and pointing 
to Franklin’s name, ‘‘you, perhaps, did not know — ” 

“Oh! Dr. Franklin’s works!” interrupted Supine: 
“ I did not see the name before — to be sure I must bow 
down to that.” 

Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine’s critical 
scruples by the authority of a name, Mr. Russell rose to 
depart, as he perceived that there was no chance of get- 
ting rid of the idlers. 

“ What are you going to do with yourself, Russell!” 
said Mr. Supine. “ We’ll walk with you, if you are 
for walking this fine evening ; only don’t let’s walk like 
penny-postmen.” 

“ But he’s in a hurry,” said Oliver ; “ he’s going to 
see a poor woman.” 

“A j9oor woman!” said Supine; “down this close 
lane, too !” 

“ O, let’s see all that’s to be seen,” whispered Hoi- 


THE GOOD AUNT, 


49 


loway : ‘‘ ten to one we shall get some diversion out 
of it: Russell’s a quiz worth studying, and Howard’s 
his ditto.” 

They came to the gardener’s house. Holloway’s 
high spirits suddenly subsided when he beheld the figure 
of the mulatto woman. 

What’s the matter?” said Oliver, observing that he 
started ; why did you start so?” 

^‘Tell Howard I want to speak one word with him 
this instant, in the street; bid him come out to me,” 
whispered Holloway ; and he hastily retreated before 
the poor woman saw his face.” 

Howard,” cried Holloway, I sent for you to tell 
you a great secret.” 

‘‘ I’m sorry for it,” said Charles, ‘‘ for I hate secrets.” 

But you can keep a secret, man, can’t you?” 

If it was necessary, I hope I could ; but I’d rather 
not hear — ” 

‘^Pooh,” nonsense!” interrupted Holloway; you 
must hear it; I’ll trust to your honour; and, besides, I 
have not a moment to stand shilly-shally : I’ve got a 
promise from my father to let me go down, this Easter, 
with Lord Rawson to Marryborough, in his dog-cart, 
random-tandem y you knovw” 

“I did not know it, indeed,” said Charles; ^‘but 
what then ?” 

“ Why then, you see, I must be upon my good be- 
haviour — and you would not do such an ill-natured 
trick as to betray me.” 

‘‘ Betray you I I don’t know what you mean,” said 
Howard, astonished. 

Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach ad- 
venture, and concluded by saying he was afraid that the 
mulatto woman should recollect either his face or voice, 
and should blow him., 

‘^And what,” said Howard, shocked at the selfish- 
ness which Holloway showed ; ‘^and what do you want 
me to do? why do you tell me all this?” 

“ Because,” said Holloway, “ I thought if you heard 
what the woman said when she saw me, you would 


50 


MORAL TALES. 


have got it all out of her, to be sure ; therefore I thought 
it best to trust you with my secret, and so put you upon 
honour with me. All I ask of you is to hold your 
tongue about my — my — my — frolic, and just make 
some excuse for my not going into the room again 
where the mulatto woman is : you may tell Supine, if 
he asks what’s become of me, that Pm gone to the music- 
shop to get some new music for him: that will keep 
him quiet.— Good-bye.” 

When Howard returned to the room where the mu- 
latto woman lay, he expected to be questioned by Mr. 
Supine about Holloway’s sudden departure; but this 
gentleman was not in the habit of paying great at- 
tention to his pupil’s motions. Pie took it for granted 
that Holloway had escaped, because he did not wish to 
be called upon for a charitable subscription. From the 
same fear, Mr. Supine affected unusual absence ot 
mind while Mr. Russell talked to the mulatto woman, 
and at length, professing himself unable to endure any 
longer the smell of smoke, he pushed his way into the 
street, Mr. Holloway, I suppose,” said he, ^^has 
taken himself home, very wisely, and I shall follow 
him: we make it a rule, 1 think, to miss one another; 
but to keep a young man in leading-strings would be a 
great bore. We’re upon the best footing in the world 
together : as to the rest — ” 

New difficulties awaited Holloway. He got home 
some time before Mr. Supine, and found his friend the 
stage-coachman waiting for him with a rueful face. 

“ Master,” said he, ‘‘ here’s a sad job ; there was 
a parcel lost last night in the confusion of the overturn 
of the coach, and I must make it good ; for it’s booked, 
and it’s booked to the value of five guineas, for it was 
a gold muslin gown that a lady was very particular 
about; and, master, I won’t peach if you’ll pay : but as 
for losing my place, or making up five guineas afore 
Saturday, it’s what I can’t take upon me to do.” 

Holloway was much dismayed at this news ; he now 
began to think he should pay too dear for his frolic. The 
coachmaif persisted in his demand. Mr. Supine appear- 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


51 


ed at the corner of the street; and his pupil was forced 
to get rid immediately of the coachman, by a promise 
that the money should be ready on Saturday. When 
Holloway made this promise, he was not master of two 
guineas in the world ; how to procure the whole sum 
was now the question. Alderman Holloway, with the 
hope of exciting in his son’s mind a love for literature 
made it a practice to reward him with solid gold when- 
ever he brought home any certificate of his scholarship. 
Holloway had lately received five guineas from his father 
for an approved copy of Latin verses ; and the alderman 
had promised to giv'e him five guineas more if he brought 
home the medal which was to be the reward for the best 
essay in the periodical paper which the Westminster 
boys were now writing. Holloway, though he could 
write elegant Latin verses, had not any great facility in 
English composition ; he, consequently, according to 
the usual practice of little minds, undervalued a talent 
which he did not possess. He had ridiculed the scheme 
of writing an English essay, and had loudly declared 
that he did not think it worth his while to write English. 
His opinion* was, however, somewhat changed by his 
father’s promised reAvard ; and the stage-coachman’s 
impatience for his money now impelled Holloway to 
exertion. He began to write his essay late on Friday 
evening — the medal was to be given on Saturday morn- 
ing — so that there could not be much time for revisal 
and corrections. Corrections he affected to disdain, and 
piqued himself upon the rapidity with which he wrote. 
“ Howard,” said he, when they met to deliver in their 
compositions, you have been three weeks writing 
your essay; I ran mine off in three hours and a quar- 
ter.” 

Mr. Holloway had not considered that what is writ- 
ten with ease is not always read with ease. His essay 
was written with such a careless superfluity of words, 
and such a lack of ideas appeared in the performance, 
that the judges unanimously threw it aside, as unworthy 
of their notice. Gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., coming 


52 


MORAL TALES. 


lorward among- the anxious crowd of expectants, which 
of you owns this motto 1 — 

“ ‘Hear it, ye senates, hear this truth sublime. 

He who allows oppression shares the crime.’ ” * 

^‘Tt’s his ! — it’s his! — it’s his!” exclaimed little Oliver, 
clapping his hands — ^^it’s Howard’s, sir.” 

Dr. B., pleased with this grateful little boy’s honest 
joy, put the medal into his hands, without speaking, 
and Oliver ran with it to his friend. Only,” said he, 
“ only let me be by, when you shoAv it to your aunt.” 

How much the pleasure of success is increased by 
the sympathy of our friends ! The triumph of a school- 
boy over his competitors is sometimes despicable; but 
Howard’s joy was not of the selfish puerile sort. All 
the good passions had stimulated him to exertion, and 
he was rewarded by his own generous feelings. He would 
not have exchanged the delight which he saw in his 
little friend Oliver’s face, the approving smile of his 
aunt, and the proud satisfaction Mr. Russell expressed 
at the sight of his medal, for all the solid gold which 
Alderman Holloway deemed the highest reward of 
literature. 

Alderman Holloway was filled with indignation when 
he heard from Mr. Supine that his son’s essay had been 
rejected with contempt. The young gentleman was also 
much surprised at the decision of the judges ; and his 
tutor, by way of pleasing his pupil’s friends, hesitated 
not to hint, that there “ certainly was great injustice done 
to Mr. Augustus Holloway’s talents.” The subject was 
canvassed at a turtle dinner at the alderman’s. ‘‘There 
shall not be injustice done to my Augustus,” said the 
irritated father, wisely encouraging his Augustus in all 
his mean feelings. “ Nevermind ’em all, my boy ; you 
have a father, you may thank Heaven, who can judge 
for himself, and will : you shall not be the loser by Dr 
B.’s or doctor anybody’s injustice ; I’ll.make it up to you, 
my boy j in the mean time join us in a bumper of port 


* Botanic G.arden, vol. ii. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


53 


Here^s to Dr. B.^s belter judgment; wishing him health 
and happiness these Easter holydays, and a new pair of 
spectacles — hey, Mr. Supine!’^ 

This well-chosen toast was drunk with much applause 
and laughter by the company. The alderman insisted 
upon having his Augustus’ essay produced in the even- 
ing. Holloway had now ample satisfaction, for the 
whole company were unanimous in their plaudits, after 
Mr. Supine had read two or three sentences : the aider- 
man, to confirm his own critical judgment, drew out his 
purse, and counting out ten bright guineas, presented 
them, with a look of high self-satisfaction, to his son. 

Here, Augustus, my boy,” said he : I promised you 
five guineas if you brought me home the prize medal ; 
but I now present you with ten, to make you the amends 
you so richly deserve, for not having got their medal. 
Thank God, I am able to afford it ; and 1 hope,” added 
the alderman, looking round, and laughing, I hope I’m 
as good a patron of the belles leltres as the head doctor 
of Westminster himself.” 

Holloway’s eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of the 
glittering bribe. He began some speech in reply, in 
which he compared his father to Mmcenas; but being 
entangled in a sentence in which the nominative case 
had been too long separated from the verb, he was com- 
pelled to pause abruptly. Nevertheless, the alderman 
rubbed his hands with exultation; and, ‘‘Hear him! 
hear him! — hear your member!” was vociferated by 
all the friends of the young- orator. “Well, really,” 
concluded his mother to the ladies, who were compli- 
menting her upon her son’s performance, “it was not 
a bad speech, considering he had nothing to say!” 

Lord Rawson, who was one of the company, now 
congratulated his friend in a whisper — “You’ve made 
a good job of it to-day, Augustus,” said he ; “ solid 
pudding’s better than empty praise. We’re going,” 
continued his lordship to the alderman, “ to try my new 
horses this evening ;” and he pulled Augustus with him 
out of the room, 

“ There they go,” said the prudent father, delighted 
e2 19 


54 


MORAL TALES. 


with his own son’s being the chosen friend of a noble- 
man — “there they go, arm in arm, a couple of rare 
ones : we shall have fine work with them, I foresee, 
when Augustus gets to college — but young men of 
spirit must not be curbed like common boys — we must 
make allowances — I have been young myself— hey, Mr. 
Supine?” 

“Certainly, sir,” said the obsequious tutor; “and 
you have still all the sprightliness of youth; and my 
ideas of education square completely with yours.” 

According to Alderman Holloway’s ideas of educa- 
tion, the holydajs were always to be made a season 
of complete idleness and dissipation, to relieve his son 
from his school studies. It was his great delight to 
contrast the pleasures of home with the hardships of 
school, and to make his son compare the indulgence of 
a father with the severity of a schoolmaster. How he 
could expect an education to succeed which he sedu- 
lously endeavoured to counteract, it may be difficult for 
any rational person to conceive. 

After Lord Rawson and Holloway had enjoyed the 
pleasures of driving the new horses, tandem, in a dog- 
cart, and had conversed about dogs and horses till they 
had nothing left to say to each other, his lordship pro- 
posed stepping in to Mr. Carat, the jeweller’s shop, to 
look at some new watches : his lordship said he was 
tired of his own, for he had had it six months. Mr. 
Carat Avas not in the way when they first went in. One 
of the young men who attended in the shop said, “that 
his master was extremely busy, in settling some ac- 
counts with a captain of a ship who was to leave Eng- 
land in a few days.” 

“ Don’t tell me of settling accounts,” cried Lord 
Rawson — “I hate the sound of settling accounts: 
run and tell 'Mr. Carat that Lord Rawson is here, and 
must speak to him this instant, for I’m in a desperate 
hurry.” 

A quarter of an hour elapsed before the impatient 
lord could be obeyed ; during this time, his lordship and 
Holloway rummaged over every thing in the shop. A 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


55 


pretty bauble to hang to his watch caught his lord3hip’s 
fancy. His lordship happened to have no money in his 
pocket. “ Holloway,” said he, my good fellow, you’ve 
ten guineas in your pocket, I know ; do lend me them 
here.” Holloway, rather proud of his riches, lent his 
ten guineas to his noble friend with alacrity j but a few 
minutes afterward recollected that he should want five 
of them, that very night, to pay the poor stage-coach- 
man. His recollection came too late, for after Lord 
Rawson had paid three or four guineas for his trinket, 
he let the remainder of the money down, with an ab- 
sent nonchalance, into his pocket. “ We’ll settle — I’ll 
pay you, Holloway, to-morrow rnornjpg, you know.” 

Holloway, from false shame, replied, “ O, very 
well.” And at this instant Mr. Carat entered the shop, 
bowing and apologizing to his lordship for having been 
busy. 

I’m always, to be sure, in a very great hurry,” 
cried Lord Rawson ; I never have a minute that I can 
call my own. All I wanted, though, just now, was to 
tell you that I could not settle any thing — you under- 
stand — till we come back from Marryborough. I go 
down there to-morrow.” 

The Jew bowed with unlimited acquiescence, as- 
suring his lordship that he should ever wait his perfect 
convenience. As he spoke he glanced an inquiring eye 
upon Holloway. 

^‘Mr. Holloway, the eldest, the only son of Alderman 
Holloway — rich as a Jew! and he’ll soon leave West- 
minster,” whispered Lord Rawson to the Jew. ‘‘Hol- 
loway,” continued he, turning to his friend, “give me 
leave to introduce Mr. Carat to you. You may,” added 
his lordship, lowering his voice, “ find this Jew a useful 
friend some time or other, my lad. He’s my man in all 
money jobs.” 

The Jew and the schoolboy seemed equally flattered 
and pleased by this introduction; they were quickly 
upon familiar terms with one another; and Mr. Carat, 
who was willing that such an acquaintance should be- 
gin in the most advantageous and agreeable manner on 


56 


3I0RAL TALES. 


his part, took the young gentleman, with an air of 
mystery and confidence, into a little room behind the 
shop ; there he produced a box full of old-fashioned 
second-hand trinkets, and without giving Holloway time 
to examine them, said that he was going to make a 
lottery of these things. If I had any young favourite 
friends,” continued the wily Jew, I should give them 
a little whisper in the ear, and bid them try their for- 
tune; they never will have a finer opportunity.” He 
then presented a handbill, drawn up in a style which 
even Messrs. Goodluck and Co. need not have disdained 
to admire. The youth was charmed with the composi- 
tion. The Jew made him a present of a couple of 
tickets for himself, and gave him a dozen more to dis- 
tribute among his companions at Westminster. Hol- 
loway readily undertook to distribute the tickets, upon 
condition that he might have a list of the prizes in the 
lottery. “ If they don’t see a list of the prizes,” said 
he, “ not a soul will put in.” 

The Jew took a pen immediately, and drew up a cap- 
tivating list of prizes. 

Holloway promised to copy it, because Mr. Carat 
said his hand must not appear in the business, and it 
must be conducted with the strictest secrecy ; because 
“ the law,” added the Jew, has a little jealousy of 
these sort of things — government likes none but licensed 
lotteries, young gentleman.” 

^‘The law! 1 don’t care what the law likes,” replied 
the schoolboy ; “ If I break the law I hope I’m rich 
enough to pay the forfeit, or my father will pay for me, 
which is better still.” 

To this doctrine the Jew readily assented, and they 
parted, mutually satisfied with each other. 

It was agreed that Lord Rawson should drive his 
friend to Marryborough the next Tuesday, and that he 
should return on Wednesday, with Holloway, to West- 
minster, on purpose that he might meet Mr. Carat there, 
who was then to deliver the prizes. 

I’ll lay you a bet,” cried Lord Rawson, as he left 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


57 


the Jew's, that you’ll have a prize yourself. Now are 
you not obliged to me for introducing you to Carat?” 

‘‘ Yes, that I am,” replied Holloway : ‘‘its easier to 

E ut into the lottery than to write Latin verses and Eng- 
sh essays. I’ll puzzle and bore myself no more with 
those things, I promise my father.” 

“ Who does, after they’ve once left school, I want to 
know?” said his noble friend. “I’m sure I’ve forgot 
all I ever learned from Latin and Greek fellows.; you 
know they tell just for nothing when one gels into the 
world. I make it a principle never to talk of books, for 
nobody does, you know, that has any thing else to talk 
of. None but quizzes and quozzes ever came out with 
any thing of that sort. Now, how they’d stare at Mar- 
ryborough, Holloway, if you were to begin sporting 
some of your Horace and Virgil I”* 

The dashing, yet bashful schoolboy, with much emo- 
tion, swore that he cared as little for Horace and Virgil 
as his lordship did. Holloway was really an excellent 
scholar, but he began to be heartily ashamed of it in his 
lordship’s company, and prudently resolved to adopt 
the principles he had just heard; to forget, as fast as 
possible, all he had learned ; never to talk of books; and 
to c'onceal both his knowledge and abilities, lest they 
$hould stare at him at Marryhorough. 

The lottery-tickets were easily disposed of among the 
young gentlemen at Westminster. As young men can 
seldom calculate, they are always ready to trust to their 
individual good fortune, and they are, consequently, 
ever ready to put into any species of lottery. 

“ Look here!” cried little Oliver, showing a lottery- 
ticket to Howard; “look what Holloway has just 
offered to give me, instead of half-a-guinea, which he 
owes me. I told him I would just run and ask youi 
advice. Shall I accept of it?” 

“I Avould advise you not,” answered Howard: 
“ you are sure of your half-guinea, and you have only 
a chance of getting any thing in the lottery.” 

“ O, but then I’ve a chance of such a number of fine 
things! You have not seen the list ol prizes. Oo you 

lb* 


58 


MORAL TALES. 


know there’s a watch among them 7 Now, suppose my 
ticket should come up a prize, and that I should get a 
watch for my half-guinea! — a real watch! — a watch 
that would go/ — a watch that I should wind up myself 
every night! O, Charles! would not tliat be a good 
bargain for my half-guinea? I’m sure you have not 
read the list of prizes, have you ?” 

^‘No; I have not,” said Howard: ‘"have you seen 
the list of blanks ?” 

“ Of blanks ! no,” said Oliver, with a changed coun- 
tenance; “ I never thought of the blanks.” 

“ And yet in most lotteries there are many more 
blanks than prizes, you know.” 

“Are there? Well, but I hope I shall not have a 
blank,” said Oliver. 

“So everybody hopes, but some people must be dis- 
appointed.” 

“Yes,” said the little boy, pausing — “ but then some 
people must win, and I have as good a chance as another, 
have not I ?” 

“ And do you know what the chance against your 
winning is? Once 1 had a great mind, as you have 
now, Oliver, to put into a lottery. It was just after my 
aunt lost all her fortune, and I thought that if I were 
to get the twenty thousand pound prize, I could give it 
to her.” 

“ PU give my watch (if I get it, I mean) to some- 
body. Pllgive it to the mulatto woman, because she is 
poor. No; I’ll give it to you, because you are the best, 
and I love you the best, and I am more obliged to you 
than to anybody in the world, for you have taught me 
more ; and you have taught me as I was never taught 
before, without laughing at, or scolding, or frightening, 
or calling me blockhead or dunce ; and you have mad^e 
me think a great deal better of myself ; and I am always 
happy when I’m with you ; and I’m quite another 
creature since you came to school. I hope you’ll nevei 
leave school while I am here,” cried Oliver. 

“But you have quite forgot the lottery,” said How 


* THE GOOD AUNT. 59 

ard, smiling, and much touched by his little friend^s 
simplicity and enthusiasm. 

“ O, the lottery! ay,” said Oliver, you were telling 
me something about yourself; do go on.” 

“ I once thought, as you doinow, that it would be a 
charming thing to put into a lottery.” 

“ Well, and did you win?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you lose?” 

« No.” 

“ How then ?” 

“ I did not put into the lottery, for I was convinced 
that it was a foolish way of spending money.” 

“ If you think it’s foolish or wrong,” said Oliver, 
I’ll have nothing to do with this lottery.” 

“ I don’t want to govern you by my opinion,” said 
Howard ; but if you have patience to attend to all the 
reasons that convinced me, you will be able to judge, 
and form an opinion for yourself. You know I must 
leave school some time or other, and then — ” 

Well, don’t talk of that, but tell me all the reasons, 
quick.” 

^‘I can’t tell them so quickly,” said Howard, laugh- 
ing : “ when we go home this evening. I’ll ask my aunt 
to look for the passage in Smith’s Wealth of Nations, 
which she showed me.” 

‘^O!” interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, ‘‘Smith’s 
Wealth of What? That’s a book, I’m sure, I shall 
never be able to understand : is it not that great large 
book that Mr. Russell reads ?” 

‘^Yes.” 

“ But I shall never understand it.” 

‘^Because it’s a large book?” 

“ No,” said Oliver, smiling, ‘‘but because I suppose 
it’s very difficult to understand.” 

“ Not what I have read of it : but I have only read 

P assages here and there. That passage about lotteries, 
think you would understand, because it is so plainly 
written.” 

“ I’ll read it, then,” said Oliver, “ and try ; and in the 


60 


MORAL TALES. 


mean time I’ll go and tell Holloway that I had rather 
not put into the lottery till I know whether it’s right or 
not.” 

Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver 
when he went to return his lottery-ticket. He abused 
and ridiculed Howard for his interference, and succeeded 
so well in raising a popular cry, that the moment How- 
ard appeared on the play-ground, a general hiss, suc- 
ceeded by a deep groan, was heard. Howard recollected 
the oracle’s answer to Cicero, and was not dismayed 
by the voice of the multitude. Holloway threw down 
half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself. 

I’ll make you remember this, Mr. Oliver.” 

“ I’ll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and 
that’s much belter than putting it into a lottery, Charles,” 
said the little boy; and as soon as the business of the 
day was done, Oliver, Howard, and Mr. Russell took 
their usual evening’s walk towards the gardener’s house. 

‘‘Ay, come in,” cried old Paul, “ come in ! God bless 
you all ! I don’t know which is the best of you. I’ve 
been looking out of my door this quarter of an hour for 
ye,” said he, as soon as he saw them ; “ and I don’t 
know when I’ve been idle a quarter of an hour afore. 
But I’ve put on my best coat, though it’s not Sunday, 
and wife has treated her to a dish of tea, and she’s up 
and dressed — the mulatto woman, I mean — and quite 
hearty again. Walk in, walk in ; it will do your hearts 
good to see her ; she’s so grateful too, though she can’t 
speak good English, which is her only fault, poor soul; 
but we can’t be born what we like, or she would have 
been as good an Englishman as the best of us. Walk 
in, walk in. And the chimney does not smoke, master, 
no more than I do ; and the window opens too ; and the 

K aper’s up, and looks beautiful. God bless ye, God 
less ye — walk in.” Old Paul, while he spoke, had 
stopped the way into the room ; but at length he recol- 
lected that they could not walk in while he stood in the 
doorway, and he let them pass. 

The little room was no longer the smoky, dismal, 
miserable place which it was formerly. It was neatly 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


61 


papered ; it was swept clean; there was a cheerful fire, 
iVhich burnt quite clearly : the mulatto woman was 
cleanly dressed, and rising from her work, she clasped 
her hands together with an emotion of joyful gratitude, 
which said more than any words could have expressed. 

This room was not papered, nor was the chimney 
cured of smoking, nor was the woman clad in new clothes 
by magic. It was all done by human means — by the 
industry and abilities of a benevolent boy. 

The translation of the little French book, which How- 
ard had completed, procured him the means of doing 
good. The bookseller, to whom he offered it, was both 
an honest man, and a good judge of literary productions. 
Mr. RusselFs name also operated in his pupil’s favour, 
and Howard received ten guineas for his translation. 

Oliver was impatient for an opportunity to give his 
half-guinea,, which he had held in his hand till it was 
quite warm. “ Let me look at that pretty thimble of 
yours,” said he, going up to the mulatto woman, who 
had now taken up her work again ; and as he playfully 
pulled off the thimble, he slipped his half-guinea into her 
hand : then he stopped her thanks by running on to a 
hundred questions about her thimble. “ What a strange 
thimble! Howcame you by such a thimble 7 Was it 
given to you 7 Did you buy it7 What’s the use of this 
screw round the inside of the rim of it 7 Do look at it, 
Charles !” 

The thimble was, indeed, remarkable ; and it seemed 
extraordinary that such a one should belong to a poor 
woman, who had lately been in great distress. 

It is gold,” said Mr. Russell, examining it, and 
very old gold.” 

The mulatto woman sighed; and as she put the. thim- 
ble upon her finger again, said, that she did not know 
whether it was gold or not; but she had a great value 
for it ; that she had had it a great many years ; that it 
had been given to her by the best friend she had ever 
had. 

Tell me about that best friend,” said Oliver ; “ I like 
to hear about best friends.” 

F 


62 


MORAL TALES. 


“ She was a very good friend indeed ; though she was 
but young, scarcely bigger than yourself, at the time 
she gave me this thimble : she was my young mistress; 

I came all the way from Jamaica on purpose to find her 
out, and in hopes to live with her in my elder day'fe. 

“Jamaica!’’ cried Ho ward — “Jamaica!” cried Oliver, 
in the same breath ; “ what was h^r name?” 

“ Frances Howard.” 

“My aunt!” exclaimed Howard. 

“ I’ll run and tell her; I’ll run and bring her here this 
instant!” said Oliver. But Mr. Russell caught hold of 
him, and detained him while they further questioned the 
woman. Her answers were perfectly consistent and 
satisfactory. She said that her mistress’ estate, in 
Jamaica, had been sold just before she left the island; 
that some of the old slaves had been set at liberty, by 
orders which came, she understood, in her mistress’ last 
letter; and that, among the rest, she had been freed; 
that she had heard say, that her good mistress had de- 
sired the agent to give her also some little provision 
^'ound upon the plantation, but that this had never been 
done; and that she had sold all the clothes and little 
things she possessed to raise money to pay for her pas- 
sage to England, hoping to find her mistress in London. 
She added, that the agent had given her a direction to 
her mistress; but that she had in vain applied at the 
house, and at every house in the same street. “ Show 
us the direction, if you have it,” said Mr. Russell. 
The woman said she had kept it very carefully; but now 
it was almost worn out. The direction was, however, 
still legible upon the ragged bit of paper, which she 
produced — To Mrs. Frances Howard, Portman-squcn'e, 
London. The instant Mr. Russell was satisfied, he was 
as expeditious as Oliver himself; they all three went 
home immediately to Mrs. Howard : she had some time 
before been confined to her room by a severe toothache. 
“You promised me, aunt,” said her nephew, “ that as 
soon as you were well enough, you would go to old 
Paul’s with us to see our poor woman; can you go this 
evening?” 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


63 


‘^O do! do, pray; Pni sure you won’t catch cold,” 
said Oliver; ‘Mbr we have a very particular reason for 
wishing you to go.” 

“ There is a sedan chair at the door,” said Mr. Russell, 
"if you are afraid, madam, of catching cold.” 

" I am not rich enough to go out in sedan chairs,” in- 
terrupted Mrs. Howard, nor prudent enough, I am 
afraid, to stay at home.” 

" Oh ! thank you,” said Oliver, who had her clogs 
ready in his hands ; " now you’ll see something that will 
surprise you.” 

" Then take care you don’t tell me what it is, before 
I see it,” said Mrs. Howard. 

Oliver with some difficulty held his tongue during the 
walk, and contented himself with working off his super- 
Jluous animation by jumping over every obstacle in his 
way. 

The meeting between the poor mulatto woman and 
her mistress was as full of joy and surprise as little 
Oliver had expected ; and this is saying a great deal, for 
where much i^ expected there is usually much disap- 
pointment; and very sympathetic people are often angry 
with others for not being as much astonished, or as 
much delighted, a,s they think the occasion requires. 


The day which Mr. Augustus flolloway imagined 
would bring him such complete felicity — the day on 
which Lord Rawson had promised to call for him in his 
dog-cart, and to drive him down, random-tandem, to Mar- 
ryborough — was now arrived. His lordship, in his dog- 
cart, was at the door ; and Holloway, in high spirits, was 
just going to get into the carriage, when some one pulled 
his coat, and begged to speak a few words with him. It 
was the stage-coachman, who was absolutely in distress 
for the value of the lost parcel, which Holloway had 
promised him should be punctually paid : but Holloway, 
now that his excursion to Marryborough was perfectly 


64 


MORAL TALES. 


secure, thought but very little of the poor coachman^s 
difficulties ; and though he had the money which he had 
raised by the lottery- tickets in his pocket, he determined 
to keep that for his amusements during the Easter holi- 
days. “^You must wait till 1 come back from Marry- 
borough ; I can’t possibly speak to you now j I can’t pos- 
sibly, you see, keep Lord Rawson waiting. Why didn’t 
you call sooner? I am not at all convinced that any 
parcel was lost.” 

‘‘ I’ll show you the books — it’s book’d sir,” said the 
man, eagerly. 

‘‘ Well, well, this is not a time to talk of booking. I’ll 
be with you in an instant, my lord,” cried Holloway 
to Lord Rawson, who was all impatience to he off. But 
the coachman would not quit his hold. I’m sorry to 
come to that, master,” said he : as long as we were 
both upon honour together it was very well j but if you 
break squares with me, being a gentleman, and rich, you 
can’t take it ill, I being a poor man and my place and all 
at stake, if I take the shortest way to get my own : I 
must go to Dr. B. for justice, if you won’t give it me 
without my peaching,” said the coachman. 

I’ll see you again to-morrow morning,” said Hollo- ■ 
way, alarmed : we come up to town again to morrow.” 

To-morrow won’t do,” said the coachman ; “ I shall 
lose my place and nry bread to day. I know how to 
trust to young gentlemen’s to-morrows.” 

A volley of oaths from Lord Rawson a^ain summoned 
his companion. At this instant, Mr. Russell, young 
Howard, and little Oliver, came up the street, and were 
passing on to Mrs. Howard’s, when Holloway stopped 
Howard, who was the last of the party. “ For Heaven’s 
sake,” said he, in a whisper, do settle for me with this 
confounded coachman ! I know you are rich ; your 
bookseller told me so ; pay five guineas for me to him, 
and you shall have them again to-morrow, there’s a good 
fellow. Lord Rawson’s waiting ; good-by.” 

‘^Stay, stay.” said Howard, who was not so easily to 
be drawn into difficulties by a moment’s weakness, or by 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


Qfy 

the want of a moment’s presence of mind ; I know no- 
thing of this business ; I have other uses for my money; 
I cannot pay five guineas for you, Holloway.” 

“ Then let it alone,” cried Holloway with a brutal ex- 
ecration; and he forcibly broke from the coachman, 
shook hands with his tutor, Mr. Supine, who was talking 
to Lord Rawson about the varnish of his gig, jumped into 
the carriage, and was whirled away from all reflection in 
a moment by his noble companion. 

The poor coachman entreated Howard to stay one in- 
stant to hear him. He explained the business to him, 
and reproached himself bitterly for his folly. “ Pm sure 
I thought,” said he, I was sure of a gentleman’s hon- 
our ; and young gentlemen ought to be above not paying 
handsome for their frolics, if they must have frolics ; and 
a frolic’s one thing, and cheating a poor man like me is 
another ; and he had like to have killed a poor mulatto 
woman, too, by the overturn of the coach, which was all 
his doings.” 

“ The woman is got very well and is very well off 
now,” interrupted Howard; ‘^you need say nothing 
about that.” 

Well, but my money, I must say about that,” said the 
coachman. Here Howard observed that Mr. Supine had 
remained at the door in a lounging attitude, and was 
quite near enough to overhear, their conversation. How- 
ard, therefore, to avoid exciting his attention by any 
mysterious whispers, walked away from the coachman 
but in vain ; he followed : “ Pll peach,” said he, I must, 
in my own defence.” 

Stay till to-morrow morning,” said Howard ; “ per- 
naps you’ll be paid then.” 

The coachman, who was a good-natured fellow, said, 
“Well, I don’t like making mischief among young gen- 
tlemen, I will wait till to-morrow, but not a day more, 
master, if you’d go down on your knees to me.” 

Mr. Supine, whose curiosity was fully awake, called to 
the coachman the moment Howard was out of hearing, 
and tried by various questions to draw the secret from 
f2 20 


66 


MORAL TALES. 


him. The words ‘‘overturn of the coach — mulatto vso- 
manf and the sentence, which the irritated coachman 
had pronounced in a raised voice, ihsit “ younp; gentle- 
men should be above not paying handsome for their frolics,"*^ 
had reached Mr. Supine’s attentive ear before Howard 
had been aware that the tutor was a listener. Nothing 
more could Mr. Supine draw, however, from the coach- 
man, who now felt himself upon honour, having promis- 
ed Howard to not peach till the next morning. Difficul- 
ties stimulated Mr. Supine’s curiosity; but he remained, 
for the present, satisfied in the persuasion that he had 
discovered a fine frolic of the immalculate Mr. Charles 
Howard ; his own pupil he did not suspect upon this occa- 
sion. Holloway’s whisperings with the coachman had 
ended the moment Mr. Supme appeared at the door, and 
the tutor had in the same rnoment been so struck with 
the beautiful varnish of Lord Rawson’s dog-cart, that 
his pupil might have whispered longer without rousing 
his attention. Mr. Supine was further confirmed in his 
mistake about Howard from the recollection of the 
mulatto woman whom he had seen at the gradener’s ; he 
knew that she had been hurt by a fall from a stage-coach. 
He saw Howard much interested about her. All this 
he joined with what he had just overheard about a frolic, 
and he was rejoiced at the idea of implicating in this 
business Mr. Russell, whom he disliked. 

Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went imme- 
diately to Alderman Holloway’s where he had a general 
invitation to dinner. Mrs. Holloway approved of her 
son’s tutor full as much for his love of gossiping as for 
his musical talents : Mr. Supine .constantly supplied her 
with news and anecdotes ; upon the present occasion, 
he thought that his story, however imperfect, would be 
eagerly received, because jt concerned Howard. 

Since the affair of the prize essay and the medal, Mrs, 
Holloway had taken a dislike to young Howard, whom 
she considered as the enemy of her dear Augustus. No 
sooner had she heard Mr. Supine’s blundering informa- 
tion than, without any further examination, she took the 


THE GOOD AUXT. 


67 


whole for granted ; eager to repeat the anecdote to Mrs. 
Howard, she instantly wrote a note to her, saying that 
she would drink tea with her that evening 

When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr, Supine, went 
in the evening to Mrs. Howard’s, they found with her 
Mrs. B., the lady of Dr. B., the master of Westminster 
School. 

“Is not this an odd rencounter?” whispered Mrs. 
Holloway to Mr. Supine, as she drew him to a recessed 
window, commodious for gossiping: “I shall be called 
a tell-tale, I know, at Westminster j but I shall tell our 
story notwithstanding. I Avould keep any other boy’s 
secret; but Howard is such a saint: and 1 hate saints.” 

A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway ; she 
looked out of the window. “O here he comes up the 
steps,” continued she, “ after his sober evening prome- 
nade, and his Mr. Russell with — and, I declare, the mu- 
latto woman with him. Now for it!” 

Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and 
said, in a low voice. 

“ Ma’am, poor Cuba is come ; she is rather tired with 
walking, and she is gone to rest herself in the front 
parlour.” 

“ Her lameness, though,” pursued little Oliver, who 
followed Howard into the room, “ is almost well. I just 
asked her how high she thought the coach was from, 
which she was — ” 

A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for 
though he did not understand the full meaning of it, he 
saw it was designed to silence him. Howard was afraid 
of betraying Holloway’s secret to Mr. Supine or to Mrs. 
Holloway ; his aunt sent him out of the room with some 
message to Cuba, which gave Mrs. Holloway an oppor- 
tunity of opening her business. 

‘‘Pray,” said she, “might I presume to ask — for I 
perceive the young gentleman has some secret to keep 
from me, which he may have good reason for— may I, 
just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether, 
as her name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. How- 
ard, is a mulatto woman?” 


68 


MORAL TALER. 


Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. How- 
ard coldly replied, Yes madam — a mulatto woman. 

‘‘And she is lame, I think sir, you mentioned?” per- 
sisted the curious lady, turning to little Oliver. 

“Yes, she’s a little lame still] but she will soon be 
quite well.” 

“ O, then her lameness came, I presume, from an ac- 
cident, sir, and not from her birth?” 

“ From an accident, ma’am.” 

“ Oh ! an accident — a fall — a fall from a coach — from 
a stage-coach, perhaps,” continued Mrs. Holloway, 
smiling significantly at Mr. Supine ; “ you take me for 
a conjuror, young gentleman, 1 see by your astonish- 
ment,” continued she to Oliver; “ but a- little bird told 
me the whole story, and I see Mrs. Howard knows how 
to keep a secret as well as myself.” 

Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation. 

“ Nay,” said Mrs. Holloway ; “ you know best, Mrs. 
Howard ; but as we’re all out of school now, I shall not 
be afraid to mention such a little affair, even before the 
doctor’s lady ; for, to be sure, she would never let it 
reach the doctor’s ears.” 

“Really, ma’am,” said Mrs. Howard, “you puzzle, 
me a little ; I wish you would explain yourself: I don’t 
know what it is that you would not have reach the doc- 
tor’s ears.” 

“You don’t! — well, then, your nephew must have 
been very clever, to have kept you in the dark ; mustn’t 
he, Mr. Supine?” ' 

“ I always, you know, thought the young gentleman 
very clever, ma’am,” said Mr. Supine, with a malicious 
emphasis. 

Mrs Howard’s colour now rose, and with a mixture 
of indignation and anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine 
and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. “ I hate mysteries!” 
said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it was 
a tender point, and hinting that it would lessen her 
esteem and confidence in one most dear to her, to hear 
the whole truth. 

“ Do you mean Howard, ma’am ?” exclaimed little 


THE GOOD AUNT. 69 

Oliver : O, speak ! speak! it’s impossible Charles How- 
ard can have done any thing wrong,” 

“ Go for him, my dear,” said Mrs. Howard, resum- 
ing her composure j “let him be present. I hate mys- 
teries.” 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Howard,” whispered Mrs. Hol- 
loway, “you don’t consider; you’ll get your nephew 
into a shocking scrape ; tfie story will infallibly go from 
Mrs. B, to Dr. B. You are warm, and don’t consider 
consequences.” 

“Charles,” said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the 
moment he appeared, “ from the time you were five 
years old till this instant I have never known you tell a 
falsehood ; I should therefore be very absurd, as well 
as very unjust, if I were to doubt your integrity. Tell 
me — have you got into any difficulties ? I would rather 
hear of them from yourself than from anybody else. 
Is there any mystery about overturning a stage-coach, 
that you know of, and that you have concealed from 
me ?” 

“There is a mystery, ma’am, about overturning a 
stage-coach,” replied Howard, in a firm tone of voice; 
“ but when I assure you that it is no mystery of mine 
— nothing in which I have myself any concern, I am 
sure that you will believe me, my dear aunt ; and that 
you will press me no further.” 

“ Not a word further, not a frown further,” said his 
aunt, with a smile of entire confidence ; in which Mr. 
Russell joined, but which appeared incomprehensible to 
Mr. Supine. 

“Very satisfactory indeed!” said that gentleman, 
leaning back in his chair; “I never heard any thing 
more satisfactory to my mind.” 

“ Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word !” echoed Mrs. 
Holloway ; but no looks, no innuendoes, could now dis- 
turb Mrs. Howard’s security, or disconcert the resolute 
simplicity which appeared in her nephew’s counte- 
nance. Mrs. Holloway, internally devoured by curi- 
osity, was compelled to submit in silence. This re- 

20 * 


70 


MORAL TALES. 


strainl soop became so irksome to her, that she short- 
ened h-er visit as much as she decenily could. 

In crossing the passage to go to her carriage, she 
caught a glimpse of the mulatto woman, who was going 
into a parlour. Resolute, at all hazards, to satisfy her- 
self, Mrs. Holloway called to the retreating Cuba — be- 
gan by asking some civil questions about her health j 
then spoke of the accident she had lately met with; and, 
in short, by a skilful cross-examination, drew her whole 
story from her. The gratitude with which the poor 
woman spoke of Howard’s humanity was by no means 
pleasing to Mr. Supine. 

Then it was not he who overturned the coach'?” 
said Mrs. Holloway. 

The woman eagerly replid, O no, madam ! ” and 
proceeded to draw, as well as she could, a description 
of the youth who had been mounted upon the coach- 
box: she had seen him only by the light of the moon, 
and afterward by the light of a lantern ; but she recol- 
lected his figure so well, and described him so accu- 
rately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture instantly, 
and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, “ Can it be Au- 
gustus'?” 

Mr. Holloway! — impossible! — I suppose — ” 

But the woman interrupted him by saying that she 
recollected to have heard the young gentleman called by 
that name by the coachman. 

The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confound- 
ed by this discovery. Mrs. Holloway got into her car- 
riage, and, in their way home, Mr. Supine represented 
that he should be ruined for ever with the alderman, if 
this transaction came to his knowledge; that, in fact, 
it was a mere boyish frolic; but that the alderman 
might not consider it in that light, and would, perhaps, 
make Mr. Augustus feel his serious displeasure. The 
foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length 
promised to be silent upon the subject. But before he 
slept, Alderman Holloway heard the whole story. The 
footman who had attended the carriage was at the door 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


71 


when Mrs. Kollo way was speaking of the mulatto wo- 
man, and had listened to every word that was said. 
This footman was in the habit of telling his master, 
when he attended him at night, all the news which be 
had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no 
favourite of his ; because, whenever the tutor came to 
the house, he gave a great deal of trouble, being too in- 
dolent to do any thing for himself, and yet not suffi- 
ciently rich, or sufficiently generous, to pay the usual 
premiums for the active civility of servants. This foot- 
man was not sorry to have an opportunity of repeating 
any story that might injure Mr. Supine with his mas- 
ter. Alderman Holloway heard it under the promise of 
concealing the name of the person who had given him 
the information, and resolved to discover the truth of 
the affair the next day, when he was to visit his son at 
Westminster. 

But we must now return to Mrs. Howard^s. We 
mentioned that Mrs. B. spent the evening with her. 
Dr. B., soon after Mrs. Holloway went away, called 
to take his lady home: he had been engaged to spend 
the evening at a card assembly ; but as he was a man 
who liked agreeable conversation better than cards, he 
had made his escape from a rout, to spend half an hour 
with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was 
a man of various literature ; able to appreciate others, 
he was not insensible to the pleasure of seeing himself 
appreciated. Half an hour passes quickly in agreeable 
conversation : the doctor got into an argument concern- 
ing the propriety of the distinction made by some late 
metaphysical writers between imagination and fancy. 
Thence he was led to some critical remarks upon War- 
ton’s beautiful Ode to Fancy ; then to the never-ending 
debate upon original genius ; including also the doc- 
trine of hereditary temper and dispositions, which the 
doctor warmly supported, and which Mrs. Howard 
coolly questioned. 

In the midst of their cpnversation they were suddenly 
interrupted by a groan. They all looked round to see 
whence it came. It came from little Oliver: he was 


72 


MORAL TALES. 


sitting at a little table at the farther end of the room, 
reading so intently in a large book, that he saw nothing 
else: a long unsnuffed candle, with a perilous fiery 
summit to its black wick, stood before him, and his left 
arm embraced a thick china jar, against which he 
leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a 
g«^neral silence in the room, while every one looked at 
Oliver as at a picture. Mrs. Howard moved gently 
round behind his chair to see what he was reading: the 
doctor followed her. It was the account of the execu- 
tion of two rebel Koromantyn negroes, related in 
Edward’s History of the West Indies.* To try whether 
it would interrupt Oliver’s deep attention, Mrs. How- 
ard leaned over him, and snuffed his dim candle; but 
the light was lost upon him — he did not feel the obliga- 
tion. Dr. B. then put his hand upon the jar, which he 
pulled from Oliver’s embrace. “Be quiet! I must 
finish this!” cried Oliver, still holding fast the jar, and 
keeping his eyes upon the book. The doctor gave a 
second pull at the jar, and the little boy made an impa- 
tient push with his elbow; then casting his eye upon 
the large hand which pulled the jar, he looked up, sur- 
prised, in the doctor’s face. 

The nice china jar which Oliver had held so sturdily 
was very precious to him. His uncle had just sent him 
two jars of fine W^est India sweetmeats. One of these 
he had shared with his companions: the other he had 
kept to give to Mrs. Howard, who had once said in his 
hearing, that she was fond of West India sweetmeats. 
She accepted Oliver’s little present. Children some- 
times feel as much pleasure in giving away sweetmeats 
as in eating them ; and Mrs. Howard too Avell under- 
stood the art of education, even in trifles, to deny to 
grateful and generous feelings their natural and necessary 
exercise. A child can show gratitude and generosity 
only in trifles. 

“Are these all the sweetmeats that you haA^e left, 
Olb'er?” said Mrs. HoAvard. . 


♦ Vol. ii. p. 57, second edition. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


73 


‘‘Yes — all.” 

“Was not Rousseau wrong. Dr. B.,” said Mrs. 
Howard, “ when he asserted that no child ever gives 
his last mouthful of any thing good?” 

“Of any thing good!” said the doctor, laughing; 
“ when I have lasted these sweetmeats, I shall be a 
better judge.” 

“You shall taste them this minute, then,” said Mrs. 
Howard ; and she rang for a plate, while the doctor, to 
little Oliver’s great amusement, exhibited various pre- 
tended signs of impatience, as Mrs. Howard deliberately 
untied the cover of the jar. One cover after another she 
slowly took off; at length the last transparent cover 
was lifted up; the doctor peeped in; but lo! instead 
of sweetmeats, there appeared notliing but paper. One 
crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard 
pulled out ; still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely 
stuffed with paper to the very bottom. Oliver was 
silent with amazement. 

“ The sides of the jar are quite clean,” said Howard. 

“ But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained 
with sweetmeats,” said Dr. B. 

“ There must have been sweetmeats in it lately,” 
said Mrs. Howard, “ because the jar smells so strongly 
of them.” 

* Among the pieces of crumpled paper which had been 
pulled out of the jar, Dr. B. espied one on which there 
appeared some writing : he looked it over. 

“Humph! What have we here? What’s this? 
What can this be about a lottery ? — tickets, price half- 
a-guinea — prizes — gold watch ! — silver ditto — chased 
tooth-pick case — buckles — knee buckles. What is all 
this? — April 10th, 1797 — the drawing to begin — prizes 
to be delivered at Westminster School, by Aaron Carat, 
jeweller! Hey, young gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., look- 
ing at Oliver and at Charles, “ do you know any thing 
of this lottery ?” 

“ I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you,” said 
Howard. 

“ Nor I, thank goodness — I mean, thank you, 

G 


74 


MORAL TALES. 


Charles,” exclaimed Oliver j ‘^for you hindered me 
from putting into the lottery : how very lucky 1 was to 
take your advice!” 

“ How very wise, you should say, Oliver,” said Dr. 
B. “ I must inquire into this business ; I must find out 
who ordered these things from Mr. Aaron Carat. 
There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster 
School, while I have power to prevent it. To-morrow 
morning I’ll inquire into this affair; and to-morrow 
morning we shall also know, my little fellow, what be-» 
came of your sweetmeats.” 

“ O never mind f/iaf,” cried the good-natured Oliver; 
“ don’t say any thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: 
I don’t mind about them ; I know already — I guess, 
now, who took them; therefore you need not- ask; I 
dare say it was only meant for a joke.” 

Dr. B. made no reply, but folded up the paper which 
he had been reading, put it into his pocket, and soon 
after took his leave. 


Lord Rawson was one of those young men who 
measure their own merit and felicity by the number of 
miles which their horses can go in a day; he undertook 
to drive his friend up from Marry borough to Westmin- 
ster, a distance of forty miles, in five hours. The 
arrival of his lordship’s gig was a signal for which 
several people were in waiting at Westminster School. 
The stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand 
his money from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, 
was arrived, and eager to settle with Mr. Holloway 
about the lottery : he had brought the prizes in a small 
case, to be delivered, upon receiving from Holloway the 
money for all the tickets of which he had disposed. 
Dr. B. was waiting for the arrival of Mr. Holloway, as 
he had determined to collect all his pupils together, 
and to examine into the lottery business. . Little Oliver 
was also watching for Holloway, to prevent mischief, 
and to assure him of forgiveness about the sweetmeats. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


75 


Lord Rawson’s dog-cart arrived: Holloway saw the 
stage-coachman as he alighted, and abruptly turning 
from him, shook hands with little Oliver, saying, “ You 
look as if you ha4 been waiting for me.” 

“ Yes,” said Oliver : but 1 can’t say what I want 
to say before everybody.’^ 

“ I’ll wait upon you presently,” said Holloway, es- 
caping from the coachman. As he crossed the hall, he 
descried Mr. Carat, and a crowd of boys surrounding 
him, crying, Mr. Carat’s come — he has brought the 
prizes — he’s brought the prizes ! he’ll show them all as 
soon as you’ve settled with him.” Holloway called 
to the Jew ; but little Oliver insisted upon being heard 
first. 

“ You must hear me ; I have something to say to you 
about the prizes — about the lottery.” 

The words arrested Holloway’s attention : he fol- 
lowed Oliver; heard with surprise and consternation 
the history of the paper which had been found in the 
jar, by Dr. B. “ I’ve done for myself now, faith!” he 
exclaimed ; I suppose the doctor knows all about the 
hand I have in the lottery.” 

No,” replied Oliver, ‘‘ he does not.” 

“ Why, ^ow must have known it; and did not he 
question you and Howard?” 

“ Yes : but when we told him that we had nothing 
to do with it, he did not press us further.” 

“You are really a noble little fellow,” exclaimed 
Holloway, “ to bear me no malice for the many ill 
turns I have done you : this last has fallen upon my- 
self, as ill-luck would have it; but before we go any 
further — your sweetmeats are safe in the press, in my 
room; I didn’t mean to steal them ; only to plague you, 
child : — but you have your revenge now.” 

I don’t want any revenge, indeed,” said Oliver, 
“for I’m never happy when I’ve quarrelled with any- 
body : and even when people quarrel with me, I don’t 
feel quite sure that I’m in the right, which makes me 
uncomfortable ; and, besides, I don’t want to find out 
that they are quite in the wrong ; and that makes me 


76 


MORAL TALES. 


un’fcomfortable the other way. After all, quarrelling and 
bearing malice are very disagreeable things, somehow 
or other. Don’t you, when you have made it up with 
people, and shaken hands, Holloway — don’t you feel 
quite light, and ready to jump again ? So shake hands, 
if you are not above shaking hands with such a little 
boy as I am ; and I shall never think again about the 
sweetmeats, or old fag times.” 

Holloway could not help feeling touched. Here’s 
my hand,” cried he; ‘^I’m sorry I’ve tormented you 
so often ; I’ll never plague you any more. But now — I 
don’t know what upon earth to do. Where’s Charles 
Howard? If he can’t help me, I’m undone. I have 
got into more scrapes than I can get out of, I know. I 
wish I could see Howard.” • 

‘‘ I’ll run and bring him to you ; he’s the best person 
at knowing what should be done — at least for me, I 
know — that ever I saw.” 

Holloway abruptly began, as soon as Howard came 
up to him: “ Howard,” said he, “ you know this pla- 
guy lottery business — but you don’t know half yet: 
here’s Carat come to be paid for his tickets ; and here’s 
that dunning stage-coachman sticks close to me for his 
five guineas ; and not one farthing have I upon earth!” 

‘‘ Not a farthing I but you don’t mean that you have 
not the money for Mr. Carat?” 

' “ But I do though.” 

Why, you cannot have spent it since yesterday 
morning?” 

No; but I have lost half and lent half ; and the half 
that I have lent is gone for ever, I’m afraid, as much as 
that which I lost.” 

‘‘Who did you lend the money to? How did you 
lose it ?” 

“ I lost part to Sir John O’Shannon, last night, at 
billiards — more fool I to play, only because 1 wanted to 
cut a figure among those fine people at Marryborough. 
I wonder my father lets me go there ; I know I sha’n’t 
go back there this Easter, unless Lord Rawson makes 
me an apology, I can tell him. I’ve as good a right to 


THE GOOD AUXT. 


77 


be upon my high horse as he has ; for though his fa- 
ther’s an earl, my father’s a great deal richer, I know; 
and has lent him a great deal of money too, and that’s 
the only reason he’s civil to us; but I can tell him — ” 

Here Howard brought the angry Holloway from his 
high horse, by asking what all this had to do with Mr. 
Carat, who was wailing to.be paid? 

“ Why, don’t 1 explain to you,” said Holloway, 
“ that I lent kirn — Lord Rawson I mean — all the money 
I had left yesterday, and 1 couldn’t get it out of him 
again, though I told him my distress about the stage- 
coachman ! Did you ever know any thing so selfish? 
Did you ever know any thing so shabby ? so shameful? 
And then to make me his butt, as he did last night at 
supper, because there were two or three dashing young 
men by ; I think more of that than all the rest. Do 
you know, he asked me to eat custard with my apple- 
pie, just to point me out for an alderman’s son; and 
when 1 only differed from him about Captain Should- 
ham’s puppy’s ears, Lord Rawson said, to be sure, I 
must know about dogs’ ears, just to put me in mind 
that I was a schoolboy; but I’ll never go to Marry- 
borough any more, unless he begs my pardon. I’ve no 
notion of being an humble friend ; but it does not signify 
being in a passion about it now,” continued Holloway. 
“ What I want you, Howard, to do for me is, just to 
think; for I’can’t think at present, I’m in such a hurry, 
with all these things coming across me at once. What 
can I do to find money for the stage-coachman and for 
Mr. Carat? Why both together come to fifteen gui- 
neas. — And what can I do about Dr. B.? And do you 
know my father is coming here this very morning? 
How shall I manage? He’d never forgive me: at 
least he’d not give me any money, for I don’t know 
how long, if these things were to come out. What 
would you advise me to do?” 

Howard, with his usual honest policy, advised Hol- 
loway at once to tell all the circumstances to his father. 
Holloway was at first much alarmed at this proposal, 
and insisted upon it that this method would not do at all 

G 2 21 


78 


MORAL TALES. 


with the alderman, though it might do very well with 
such a woman as Mrs. Howard. At length, however, 
overcome, partly by the arguments, and partly by the 
persuasion of his new adviser, Holloway determined 
upon his confession. 

Alderman Holloway arrived, and was beginning to 
talk to Dr. B. of his son’s proficiency in his studies, when 
the young gentleman made his appearance, with a 
countenance extremely embarrassed and agitated. The 
sight of Dr. B. deprived Holloway of courage to speak. 
The doctor fixed his penetrating eye upon the pale 
culprit, who immediately stopped short in the middle 
of the room, stammering out, “ I came to speak, sir — I 
had something to say to my father, sir — I came, if you 
please, to speak to my father, sir.” To Holloway’s 
utter astonishment. Dr. B.’s countenance and manner 
suddenly changed at these words ; all his severity van- 
nished ; and, with a look and voice the most encour- 
aging, he led the abashed youth towards his father. 

“ You came to speak to your father, sir? Speak to 
him then without fear, without reserve : you will cer- 
tainly find in a father your most indulgent friend. I’ll 
leave you together.” 

This opening of the case by Dr. B. was of equal ad- 
vantage both to the father and to the son. Alderman 
Holloway, though without literature, was not without 
understanding ; his aflection for his son made him quickly 
comprehend the good sense of the doctor’s hint. The 
alderman was not surprised by the story of the overturn 
ol the stage-coach, because he had heard it before from 
his footman. But the lottery transaction with the Jew 
— and, above all, with the loss and loan of so much 
money to his friend Lord Rawson struck him with some 
astonishment ; yet he commanded his temper, which 
was naturally violent; and after a constrained silence, 
he begged his son to summon Mr. Supine. At least,” 
cried the alderman, I’ve a right to be in a passion with 
that careless, indolent, dilettanti puppy, whom I’ve been 
paying all this while for taking such care of you. I 
wish i had hold of his German flute at this instant 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


79 


You are very right, Augustus, to come like a man and 
tell me all these things; and now I must lell you that 
some of them I had heard of before. I wish I had that 
Jew, that Mr. Carat of yours, here ! and that stage-coach- 
man, who had the impertinence to take you out with 
him at night. But it’s all Mr. Supine’s fault — and mine, 
for not chosing a better tutor for you. As to Lord Raw- 
son, I can’t blame you either much for that, for I en- 
couraged the connexion, I must own. I’m glad you 
have quarrelled with him, however ; and pray look out 
for a better friend as fast as possible. You were very 
right to tell me all these things ; on that consideration, 
and that only. I’ll lend my hand to getting you out of 
these scrapes.” 

For that,” cried Holloway, I may thank Howard, 
then ; for he advised and urged me to tell you all this at 
once.” 

^^Call him; let me thank him,” said the alderman; 
‘‘ he’s an excellent young man then — call him.” 

Dr. B. now entered the room with little Oliver. 

When Holloway returned with Howard, he beheld 
the stage-coachman standing silent on one side of his 
father; Mr. Carat, the Jew, on the other side, jabbering 
an unintelligible vindication of himself ; while Dr. B. 
was contemplating the box of lottery prizes, which lay 
open upon the table. Mr. Supine leaning against the 
chimney-piece, appeared in the attitude of an Antinous 
in despair. 

‘‘ Come, my little friend,” said Dr. B. to Oliver, you 
did not put into the lottery, I understand. Choose from 
among these things whatever you please. It is better 
to trust to prudence than fortune, you see. Mr. Howard, 
I know that I am rewarding you at this instant, in the 
manner you best like, and best deserve.” 

There was a large old-fashioned chased gold toothpick 
case, on which Oliver immediately fixed his eye. After 
examining it very carefully, he drew the doctor aside, 
and, after some consultation, Oliver left the room hastily ; 
while the alderman, with all the eloquence of which he 
was master, expressed his gratitude to Howard for the 


80 


MORAL TALES. 


advice which he had given his son. Cultivate this 
young gentleman^s friendship,’’ added he, turning to Hol- 
loway : he has not a title ; but eyen I, Augustus, am 
now ready to acknowledge he is worth twenty Lord Raw- 
sons. Had he a title, he would grace it ; and that’s as 
much as I can say for any man.” 

The Jew, all this time, stood in the greatest trepida- 
tion ; he trembled lest the alderman should have him 
taken up and committed to jail for his illegal, unlicensed 
lottery. He poured forth as many protestations as his 
knowledge of the English language could afford of the 
purity of his intentions ; and, to demonstrate his disin- 
terestedness, began to display the trinkets in his prize- 
box, with a panegyric upon each. Dr. B. interrupted 
him by paying for the toothpick case which he had 
bought for Oliver. “ Now. Mr. Carat,” said the doctor, 

you will please to return, in the first place, the money 
you have received for your illegal lottery tickets.” 

\ The word illegal, pronounced in a tremendous tone, 
operated instantaneously upon the Jew ; his hand, which 
had closed upon Holloway’s guineas, opened ; he laid the 
money down upon the table ; but mechanically seized 
his box of trinkets, which he seemed to fear would be 
the next seized, as forfeits. No persons are so appre- 
hensive of injustice and fraud as those who are them- 
selves dishonest. Mr. Carat, bowing repeatedly to Al- 
derman Holloway, shuffled towards the door, asking if 
he might now depart ; when the door opened with such 
a force as almost to push the retreating Jew upon his 
face. 

Little Oliver, out of breath, burst into the room, whis- 
pered a few words to Dr. B. and Alderman Holloway, 
who answered, He may come in j” and a tall, stout 
man, an officer from Bow-street, immediately entered. 
“There’s your man, sir,” said the alderman, pointing 
to the Jew ; “ there is Mr. Carat.” The man instantly 

seized Mr. Carat, produced a warrant from Justice , 

for apprehending the Jew upon suspicion of his having 
in his possession certain valuable jewels, the property 
of Mrs. Frances Howard. 


THE GOOD AUx\T. 


81 


Oliver was eager to explain. Do you know, How- 
ard,” said he, “how all this came about? Do you 
Know your aunt’s gone to Bow-street, and has taken 
the mulatto woman with her, and Mr. Russell has gone 
with her; and she thinks — and 1 think — she’ll certainly 
have her jewels, her grandmother’s jewels, that were 
left in Jamaica.” 

“ How ? but how?” exclaimed Howard. 

“ Why,” said Oliver, “ by the toothpick case. The 
reason 1 chose that toothpick case out of the Jew’s box 
was because it came into my head, the minute I saw it, 
that the mulatto woman’s curious thimble — you remem- 
ber her thimble, Howard — would just fit one end of 
it. I ran home and tried it, and the thimble screwed on 
as nicely as possible ; and the chasing, as Mr. Russell 
said, and the colour of the gold, matched exactly. O ! 
Mrs. Howard was so surprised when we showed it to 
her — so astonished to see this toothpick case in England ; 
for it had been left, she said, with all her grandmother’s 
diamonds and things, in Jamaica.” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Howard ; “ I remember my aunt 
told us, when you asked her about Cuba’s thimble, that 
she gave it to Cuba when she was a child, and that it 
belonged to some old trinket. Go on.” 

“Well, where was I? — O, then, as soon as she saw 
the toothpick case, she asked how it had been found ; 
and I told her all about the lottery and Mr. Carat; then 
she and Mr. Russell consulted, and away they went, 
with Cuba, in a coach ; and all llie rest you know ; and 
I wish I could hear the end of it!” 

“ And so you shall, my good little fellow; we’ll all go 
together, to hear the Jew’s examination : you shall go 
with me in my coach to Bow-street,” said Alderman 
Holloway. 

In the midst of their bustle, the poor stage-coachman, 
who had waited with uncommon patience in hopes that 
Alderman Holloway would at last recollect him, pressed 
forward, and petitioned to be paid his five guineas for the 
lost parcel. “ I have lost my place already,” said he, 

21 * 


82 


MORAL TALES. 


“ and the little goods I have will be seized this day for 
the value of that unlucky parcel, master.’’ 

The alderman put his hand slowly into his purse ; but 
just when he had pulled out five guineas, a servant came 
into the room to inform Dr. B. that a sailor was waiting 
in the hall, who desired to speak, directly, about some- 
thing of consequence, to the stage-coachman. 

Dr. B., who imagined that the sailor might have some- 
thing to do with the business in question, ordered that 
he might be shown into the room. 

“ I wants one Gregory Giles, a stage-coachman, if ‘ 
such a one be here amongst ye, gentlefolks, and nobody 
else,” cried the sailor, producing a parcel, wrapped up 
in brown paper. 

It’s my very parcel,” exclaimed the stage-coachman. 
“I am Gregory Giles! God bless your honest heart! 
— Where did ye find it? — Give it me!” 

The sailor said he had found it in a dry ditch on the 
Bath road, a little beyond the first turnpike going out of 
town ; that he had inquired at the turnpike-house ; had 
heard that the stage had been overturned a few days be- 
fore, and that a parcel had been lost, about which the 
coachman had been in great trouble ; that he had gone 
directly to the inn where the coach put up ; had traced 
the coachman from place to place, and was heartily glad 
he had found him at last. 

“ Thank’ee, with all my heart,” said the coachman, 

for all the trouble you’ve been at ; and here’s the 
crown reward that I offered for it, and my thanks into 
the bargain.” 

‘^No, no,” said the honest sailor, pushing back the 
money ; ‘‘ I won’t take any thing from a poor fellow 
like myself : put your silver into your pocket : I hear you 
lost your place already by that parcel. There was a 
great talk at the turnpike-house about your losing your 
place, for giving some young gentleman a lift. Put up 
your money.” 

All present were eager in rewarding the honest sailor. 

A hackney-coach was now come to the door for Mr. 
Carat, and everybody hurried off as fast as possible. 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


83 


Where are they all steering to?’^ said the sanor. 
The stage-coachman told him all that he had heard of 
the matter. “ Pll be in their wake, then,” cried the 
sailor; “ I shall like to see the Jew upon his court-mar- 
tial ; I was choused once by a Jew myself.” He got to 
Bow-street as soon as they did. 

The first thing Howard learned was, that the jewels, 
which had been all found at Mr. Carat’s, precisely an- 
swered the description which his aunt had given of them. 

The Jew was in the utmost consternation : finding that 
the jewels were positively sworn to, he declared, upon 
his examination, that he had bought them from a captain 
of a ship ; that he had paid the full value for them; and 
that, at the time he purchased them, he had no suspicion 
of their having been fraudulently obtained. This defence 
appearing evidently evasive, the magistrates who ex- 
amined Mr. Carat, informed him, that unless he could 
produce the person from whom he had bought the jewels, 
he must be committed to Newgate, for receiving stolen 
goods. Terrified at this sentence, the Jew, though he 
had at first asserted that he knew nothing of the captain 
from whom he had received the diamonds, now acknow- 
ledged that he actually lodged at his house. 

“Hah!” exclaimed Holloway : “ I remember the day 
that I and Lord Rawson called at your house, you were 
settling accounts, your foreman told us, with a captain 
of a ship, who was to leave England in a few days; it’s 
well he’s not off.” 

An officer was immediately sent to Mr. Carat’s in 
quest of this captain; but there were great apprehen-^ 
sions that he might have escaped at the first alarm of ^ 
the search for the jewels. Fortunately, however, he 
had not been able to get off, as two constables had. been 
stationed at Mr. Carat’s house. The officer from Bow- 
street found him in his own bed-chamber, rummaging a 
portmanteau for some papers which he wanted to burn. 
His papers were seized, and carried along with him, 
before the magistrate. 

Alderman Holloway knew the captain the moment 
he was brought into the room, though his dress and 


84 


MORAL TALES. 


whole appearance were very different from what they 
had been when he had wailed upon the alderman some 
months before this time, with a dismal, plausible story 
of his own poverty and misfortunes. He had then told 
him that his mate and he had a quarrel, upon the voy- 
age from Jamaica; that the mate knew what a valuable 
cargo he had on board : that just when they got in sight 
of land, the crew rose upon him ; the mate seized him, 
and by force put him into a boat and set him ashore. 

The discovery of the jewels at Mr. Carat’s, at once 
overturned the captain’s whole story; cunning people 
often insert something in their narration to make it bet- 
ter, which ultimately tends to convict them of falsehood. 
The captain, having now no other resource, and having 
the horrors of imprisonment, and the certainty of con- 
demnation upon a public trial full before him, threw 
himself, as the only chance that remained for him, upon 
Mrs. Howard’s mercy; confessed that all that he had 
told her before was false ; that his mate and he had 
acted in concert ; that the rising of the crew against him 
had been contrived between them ; that he had received 
the jewels, when he was set ashore, for his immediate 
share of the booty ; and that the mate had run the ship 
off to Charleston, to sell her cargo. According to agree- 
ment, the captain added, he was to have had a share in 
the cargo; but the mate had cheated him of that; he had 
never heard from him, or of him, he would take his 
oath, from the day he was set ashore, and knew nothing 
of iim or the cargo. 

Avast, friend, by your leave,” cried the honest 
sailor w’ho had found the stage-coachman’s parcel — 
‘‘avast, friend, by your leave,” said he, elbowing his 
way between Alderman Holloway and his next neigh- 
bour, and getting clear into the middle of the circle — “I 
know more of this matter, my lord, or please your wor- 
ship, which is much the same lining, than anybody here; 
and I’m glad on’t, mistress,” continued the tar, pulling 
a cud of tobacco out of his mouth, and addressing him- 
self to Mrs. Howard : then turning to the captain, 
“ W asn’t she the Lively Peggy, pray ? — it’s no use tack- 


THE GOOD AUNT. 


85 


ing. Wasn’t your mate one John Matthews, pray? 
Captain, your face tells truth, in spite of your teeth.” 

The captain instantly grew pale, and trembled : on 
which the sailor turned abruptly from him, and went on 
with his story. ‘‘Mistress,” said he, “though Pm a 
loser by it, no matter. The Lively Peggy and her cargo 
are safe and sound in Plymouth at this very time being, 
and we have her mate in limbo, curse him. We made 
a prize of him coming from America, for he was under 
French colours, and a fine prize we thought we’d made. 
But her cargo belongs to a British subject; and there’s 
an end of our prize-money : no matter for that. There 
was an ugly look with Matthews from the first ; and I 
found the day we took her, something odd in the look 
of her stern. The rascals had done their best to paint 
over her name ; but I, though no great scholar, made a 
shift to spell the Lively Peggy through it all. We have 
the mate in limbo at Plymouth ; but it’s all come out, 
without any more to do; and, mistress, Pll get you her 
bill of lading in a trice, and I give ye joy with all my 
heart.” 

Alderman Holloway, a man used to business, would 
not indulge himself in a single compliment upon this 
occasion, till he had cautiously examined the captain’s 
papers. The bill of lading which had been sent with 
the Lively Peggy from Jamaica, was found among them; 
it was an exact list, corresponding precisely with that 
which Mrs. Howard’s agent hed sent her by post, of the 
consignment shipped after the sale of her plantation. 
The alderman, satisfied, after counting the puncheons 
of rum and hogsheads of sugar, turned to Mrs. Howard, 
and shook hands with her, with a face of mercantile 
congratulation, declaring that “she was now as good a 
woman as ever she had been, and need never desire to 
be better.” 

“My dear Oliver,” cried Howard, “this is all owing 
to you : you discovered — ” 

“No, no, no!” interrupted Oliver, precipitately : “all 
ttiat I did was accident; all that you did was not acci* 

H 


86 


MORAL TALES. 


dent. You first made me love you, by teaching me th^t 
I was not a blockhead, and by freeing me from — ’’ 

tyrant, you were going to say,’’ cried Holloway, 
colouring deeply ; “ and if you had, you would have said 
the truth. I thought, Howard, afterward, that you were 
a brave fellow for taking his part, I confess. But, Oliver, 
I thought you had forgiven me for all these things.” 

Forgiven! Oh yes, to be sure,” cried little Oliver; 

I wasn’t thinking of myself, or you either; I was only 
thinking of Howard’s good nature; and then,” continued 
he, Howard was just as good to the mulatto woman 
as he was to me — wasn’t he, Cuba?” 

“That he was !” replied the poor woman ; and look- 
ing at Mrs. Howard, added, “ Massa’s heart as good as 
hers.” 

“And his head^s as good as his heart, which mrakes 
it all better still,” continued Oliver, with enthusiasm. 
“Mr. Russell, you know how hard he worked at that 
translation to earn money to support poor Cuba, and to 
paper the room, and to pay the bricklayer/or the smoky 
chimney : these things weren’t done by accident, were 
they? though it was by accident that I happened to ob- 
serve Cuba’s curious thimble.” 

“There are some people,” interrupted Mr. Russell, 
“who, by accident, never observe any thing. We will 
not allow you, Oliver, to call your quick habit of obser- 
vation, accident; your excellent capacity will — ” 

“ATy excellent capacity!” repeated Oliver, with un- 
feigned surprise : “ why you know I get by rote slower 
than anybody in the world.” 

“You may,” said Dr. B., “notwithstanding, have 
an excellent capacity : much may be learned without 
books; much more with books, Oliver; but for your 
comfort you need not learn them by rote.” 

“I’m glad of it, heartily,” cried Oliver; “but this put 
something out of my head that I was in a great hurry 
to say — Oh, one other thing about accident. It wms not 
accident, but it was Howard’s sense in persuading me 
not to put into the lottery, that was the very cause of 


. THE GOOD AUx\T. 87 

Dr. B.’s giving me the choice of all the things in the 
Jew’s box — was it?” 

“Well, Oliver, we are ready to allow all you want 
U6 to perceive ; in one word, that your friend Howard 
has not been educated by accident ” said Dr. B., looking 
at Mrs. Howard. ' • 

The Jew, and the captain of the Lively Peggy were 
now left in the hands of the law. The sailor was pro- 
perly rewarded. Mr. Russell was engaged to superintend 
the education of Holloway. He succeeded, and was 
presented by the alderman with a living in Surrey. Mr. 
Supine never visited Italy, and did not meet with any 
consolation but in his German flute. Howard continued 
eager to improve himself j nor did he imagine that the 
moment he left school, and parted from his tutor, his 
education was finished, and that his books were “ like 
J past misfortunes,” good for nothing but to be forgotten. 
His love for literature he found one of the first pleasures 
of his life; nor did he, after he came into the possession 
of a large fortune, find that his habits of constant occu- 
pation lessened his enjoyments, for he was never known 
to yawn at a window upon a rainy morning! 

Little Oliver’s understanding rapidly improved ; his 
affection for his friend Howard incre^ased as he grew up, 
for he always remembered that Howard was the first 
person who discovered that he was not a dunce. Mrs. 
Howard had the calm satisfaction of seeing an education 
well finished, which she had well begun ; and she en- 
joyed in her.nephew’s friendship, esteem, and uncon- 
strained gratitude, all the rewards which her good sense, 
firmness, and benevolence had so well deserved. 


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M/VDEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


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MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


T 


PART I. 

Mrs. Temple had two daughters, Emma and Helen. 
She had taken a great deal of care of their education, and 
they were very fond of their mother, and particularly 
happy whenever she had leisure to converse with them. 
They used to tell her every thing that ih’ey thought and 
felt; so that she had it in her powder early to correct, or 
rather to teach them to correct, any little faults in their 
disposition, and to rectify those errors of judgment to 
which young people, from want of experience, are so 
liable. 

Mrs. Temple lived in the country, and her society was 
composed of a few intimate friends; she wished, especi- 
ally during the education of her children, to avoid the 
numerous inconveniences of what is called an extensive 
acquaintance. However, as her children grew older, it 
was necessary that they should be accustomed to see a 
variety of characters, and still more necessary that they 
should learn to judge of them. There was little danger of 
Emma’s being hurt by the first impressions of new faces 
and new ideas; but Helen, of a more vivacious temper, 
had not yet acquired her sister’s good sense. We must 
observe, that Helen was a little disposed to be fond of 
novelty, and sometimes formed a prodigiously high 
opinion of persons whom she had seen but for a few 
hours. Not to admire” was an art which she had to 
learn. 

When Helen was between eleven and twelve years 
old, Lady S — returned from abroad, and came to reside 

91 


92 


MORAL TALES- 


at liei country seat, which was very near Mrs. Temple’s. 
The lady had a daughter. Lady Augusta, who was a 
little older than Helen. One morning a fine coach drove 

to the door, and Lady S and her daughter were 

announced. We shall not say any thing at present of 
either of the ladies, except that Helen was much delight- 
ed with them, and talked of nothing else to her sister all 
the rest of the day. 

The next morning, as these two sisters were sitting at 
work in their mother’s dressing-room, the following con- 
versation began : — 

^‘ Sister, do you like pink or blue the best?” said Helen. 

I don’t know ; blue, I think.” 

O, blue to be sure. Mother, which do you like best?” 

‘^Why ’tis a question of such importance, I must 
have time to deliberate. I am afraid I like pink the 
best.” 

^^Pink! dear, that’s very odd! But, mamma, didn’t 
you think yesterday, that Lady Augusta’s sash was a 
remarkably pretty pale blue ?” 

Yes ; I thought it was very pretty ; but as I have 
seen a great many such sashes, I did not think it was 
any thing very remarkable.” 

^^Well, perhaps it was not remarkably pretty; but 
you’ll allow, ma’am, that it was very well pul on?” 

•Ht was put on as other sashes are, as well as I re- 
member.” 

I like Lady Augusta exceedingly, mother.” 

“What, because she has a blue sash?” 

“No, I’m not quite so silly as that,” said Helen, 
laughing; ‘^not because she has a blue sash?” 

“ Why then did you like her? — because it was well 
put on?” 

“O no, no.” 

“ Why then ?” 

“Why, mamma why do you ask why? I can’t tell 
why. You know one often likes and dislikes people at 
first without exactly knowing why.” 

“One? whom do you mean by one?” 

“ Myself, and every body.” 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 93 

'^You perhaps, but not every body; for only silly 
people like and dislike without any reason.” 

“But I hope I not one of the silly people. I only 
meant that I had no thought about it. I dare say if I 
were to think about it I should be able to give you a 
great many reasons.” 

“ I shall be contented with one good one, Helen.” 

“Well then, ma’am, in the first place, I liked her 
because she was so good-humoured.” 

“ You saw her but for one half hour. Are you sure 
that she is good-humored ?” 

“No, ma’am; but I ’m sure she looked very good- 
humoured?” 

“ That’s another affair. However, I acknowledge it 
is reasonable to feel disposed to like any one who has a 
good-humoured countenance, because the temper has, I 
believe, a very strong influence upon certain muscles 
of the face ; and Helen, though you are no great physi- 
ognomist, we will take it for granted that you were not 
mistaken. Now 1 did not think Lady Augusta had 
a remarkably good-tempered countenance, but I hope 
that I am mistaken. Was this your only reason for 
liking her exceedingly? 

“No, not my only reason. I liked her — because — 
because — indeed, ma’am,” said Helen, growing a little 
impatient at finding herself unable to arrange her own 
ideas, “ indeed, ma’am, I don’t just remember any thing 
in particular, but I know I thought her very agreeable 
altogether.” 

“Saying that you think a person very agreeable 
altogether may be a common mode of expression, but 1 
am obliged to inform you that it is no reason, nor do 1 
exactly comprehend what it means, unless it means, in 
other words, that you don’t choose to be at the trouble 
of thinking. I am sadly afraid, Helen, that you must 
be content at last to be ranked among the silly ones, 
who like and dislike without knowing why — Hey, 
Helen?” 

“ O no, indeed, mother,” said Helen, putting down 
her work. 


94 


MORAL TALES. 


My dear, [ am sorry to distress you, but what has 
become of the great many good reasons?’’ 

“O, I have them still; but then I ’m afraid to tell 
them, because Emma will laugh at me.” 

“No, indeed 1 won’t laugh,” said Emma; “besides, • 
if you please, I can go away.” 

“No, no, sit still; I will tell them directly. Why, 
mother, you know, before we saw Lady Augusta, every 
body told us how pretty, and accomplished, and agree- 
able she was.” 

“ Every body! nobody that I remember,” said Emma, 

“ but Mrs. H. and Miss K.” 

“ O, indeed, sister, and Lady M. too.” 

“Well, and Lady M.; that makes three. But are 
three people every body?” 

“ No, to be sure,” said Helen, a little disconcerted. 

“ But you promised not to laugh at me, Emma. How- 
ever, mother, without joking, I am sure Lady Augusta 
is very accomplished at least. Do you know, ma’am, 
she has a French governess? But I forget her name.” 

“Never mind her name; it is little to the purpose.” 

“ O, but I recollect it now ; — Mademoiselle Panache.” 

“ Why, undoubtedly. Lady Augusta’s having a French 
governess, and her name being Mademoiselle Panache, 
are incontrovertible proofs of the excellence of her edu- 
cation; but I think you said you were sure that she was 
very accomplished. What do you mean by accomplish- 
ed?” 

“Why, that she dances extremely well, and that she 
speaks French and Italian, and that she draws exceed- 
ingly well indeed — takes likenesses, mamma, likenesses 
in miniature, mother!” 

“ You saw them, I suppose?” 

Saw them? No, I did not see them, but I heard of 
them.” 

“That’s a singular method of judging of pictures.” 

“But however, she certainly plays extremely well 
upon the piano-forte, and understands music perfectly. 

I have a particular reason for knowing this, however.” 

“You did not hear her play?” 


MADEMOISELLE PAiNACHE. 06 

“No ; but 1 saw an Italian song written in her own 
hand, and she told me she set it lo music herself.’’ 

“ You saw her music, and heard of her drawings; 
excellent proofs! Well, but her dancing?” 

“Why, she told me the name of her dancing- master; 
and it sounded like a foreign name.” 

“ So I suppose he must be a good one 7” said Emma, 
laughing. 

“ But, seriously, I do believe she is sensible.” 

“ Well ; your cause of belief?” 

“ Why, I asked her if she had read much history, and 
she answered, ‘ Jl little;’ but I saw by her look she 
meant great deal.’ Nay, Emma, you are laughing 
now ; I saw you smile.” 

“ Forgive her, Helen ; indeed it was very difficult to 
help it,” said Mrs. Temple. 

“ Well, mother,” said Helen, I believe I have been 
a little hasty in my judgment, and all my good reasons 
are reduced to nothing. I dare say all this time Lady 
Augusta is very ignorant and very ill-natured.” 

“ Nay ; now you are going into the opposite extreme. 
It is possible she may have all the accomplishments 
and good qualities which you at first imagined her to 
have. I only meant to show you that you had no 
proofs of them hitherto.” 

“ But surely, mother, it would be but good-natured 
to believe a stranger to be amiable and sensible when 
we knew nothing lo the contrary ; strangers may be as 
good as the people we have known all our lives; so it 
would be very hard upon them, and very silly in us 
too, if we were to take it for granted they were every 
thing that was bad merely because they were strangers.” 

“ You do not yet reason with perfect accuracy, Helen. 
Is there no difference between thinking people every 
thing that is good and amiable, and taking it for granted 
that they are every thing that is bad ?” 

“ But then, mother, what can one do ? To be always 
doubting and doubting is very disagreeable ; and at first, 
when one knows nothing of a person, how can we 
judge ?” 


96 


MORAL TALES. 


“ There is no necessity, that I can perceive, for your 
judging of people’s characters the very instant- they 
come into a room, which I suppose is what you mean 
by ‘at first.’ And though it be disagreeable to be 
always ‘ doubting and doubling,’ yet it is what we 
must submit to patiently, Helen, unless we would sub- 
mit to the consequences of deciding ill ; which, let me 
assure you, my little daughter, are infinitely more dis- 
agreeable.” 

“Then,” said Helen, “ I had better doubt and doubt 
a little longer, mother, about Lady Augusta.” 

Here the conversation ended. A few days afterwards 
Lady Augusta came with her mother to dine at Mrs. 
Temple’s. For the first hour Helen kept her resolution, 
and with some difficulty maintained her mind in the 

g ainful, philosophic state of doubt; but the second 
our Helen thought that it would be unjust to doubt 
any longer, especially as Lady Augusta had just shown 
her a French pocket fan, and at the very same time ob- 
served to Emma that her sister’s hair was a true auburn 
colour. 

In the evening, after they had returned from a walk, 
they went into Mrs. Temple’s dressing-room, to look at 
a certain black japanned cabinet, in which Helen kept 
some dried specimens of plants, and other curious 
things. Half the drawers in this cabinet were hers, and 
the other half her sister’s. Now Emma, though she 
was sufficiently obliging and polite towards her new ac- 
quaintance, was by no means enchanted with her ; nor 
did she feel the least disposition suddenly to contract a 
friendship with a person she had seen but for a few 
hours. This reserve Helen thought showed some want 
of feeling, and seemed determined to make amends for 
it by the warmth and frankness of her own manners. 
She opened all the drawers of the cabinet ; and whilst 
Lady Augusta looked and admired, Helen watched 
her eye, as Aboulcasem, in the Persian Tales, watched 
the eye of the stranger to whom he was displaying his 
treasures. Helen, it seems, had read the story, which 
had left a deep impression upon her imagination; and 


MADEMOISELLE TA^N^ACHE. 


97 


she had long determined, on the first convenient opp ?r- 
tunity, to imitate the conduct of the ‘‘generous Persian.” 
Immediately, therefore, upon observing that any thing 
struck her guest’s fancy, she withdrew it, and secretly 
set it apart lor her, as Aboulcasem set apart the slave, 
and the cup, and the peacock. At night, when Lady 
Augusta was preparing to depart, Helen slipped out of 
the room, packed up the things, and as Aboulcasem 
wrote a scroll with his presents, she thought it neces- 
'Sary to accompany hers with a billet. All this being 
accomplished with much celerity and some trepidation, 
she hurried down stairs, and gave her packet to one 

of the servants, and saw it lodged in Lady S ’s 

coach. 

When the visit was ended, and Helen and Emma had 
retired to their own room at night, they began to talk 
instead of going to sleep. “ Well, sister,” said Helen, 
“ and what did you give to Lady Augusta?” 

“I? nothing.” 

“Nothing!” repeated Helen, in a triumphant tone. 
“Then she will not think you very generous.” 

“Ido not want her to think me very generous,” 
said Emma, laughing ; “ neither do I think that giving 
of presents to strangers is always a proof of generosity.” 

“ Strangers or no strangers, that makes no difference; 
for surely a person’s giving away any thing that they 
like themselves is a pretty certain proof, Emma, of their 
generosity.” 

“ Not quite so certain,” replied Emma ; “ at least I 
mean as far as I can judge of my own mind. I know 
I have sometimes given things away, that I liked my- 
self, merely because I was ashamed to refuse. Now I 
should not call thatgenerosity, but weakness. And besides, 
I think it does make a great deal of difference, Helen, 
whether you mean to speak of strangers or friends. I 
am sure, at this instant, if there is any thing of mine in 
that black cabinet that you wish for, Helen, I’ll give it 
you with the greatest pleasure.” 

“And not to Lady Augusta?” 

“No; I could not do both. And do you think I 

I 


98 


MORAL TALES. 


would make no distinction between a person I have 
lived with and loved for years, and a stranger, whom I 
know and care very little about?’^ 

Helen was touched by this speech, especially as she 
entirely believed her sister, for Emma was not one who 
made sentimental speeches. 

A short time after this visit, Mrs. Temple took her 

two daughters with her, to dine at Lady 8 ’s. As 

they happened to go rather earlier than usual, they found 
nobody in the drawing-room but the French governess. 
Mademoiselle Panache. Helen, it seems, had conceived 
a very sublime idea of a French governess, and when 
she first came into the room she looked up to Mademoi- 
selle Panache with a mixture of awe and admiration. 
Mademoiselle was not much troubled with any of that 
awkward reserve which seems in England sometimes 
to keep strangers at bay for the first quarter of an hour 
of their acquaintance. She could not, it is true, speak 
English very fluently, but this only increased her desire 
to speak it; and between two languages she found 
means, with some difficulty, to express herself. The 
conversation, after the usual preliminary nothings had 
been gone over, turned upon France and French litera- 
ture. Mrs. Temple said she was going to purchase 
some French books for her daughters, and very politely 
begged to know what authors Mademoiselle would par- 
ticularly recommend. Vat auteurs^’' — you do me 
much honour madame — Vat auteurs f why , Mesdenioi- 
scUes, there's Telemaque and Belisaire.” 

Helen and Emma had read Telemaque and Belisaire, 
so Mademoiselle was obliged , to think again. Jlt- 
tcndez!" cried she, putting up her fore-finger in an at- 
titude of recollection. But the result of all her recollection 
was still ‘^Belisaire” and Telemaque,” and an Abbe's 
book, whose name she could not remember, though she 
remembered perfectly well that the work was pub- 
lished “ I'an mille six cent quatre-vingts dix.” 

Helen could scarcely forbear smiling, so much was 
her awe and admiration of a French governess abated. 
Mrs. Temple, to relieve Mademosielle fr5m tl.e per* 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


99 


plexity of searching for the Abbe’s name, and to avoid 
the hazard of going out of her circle of French litera- 
ture, mentioned Gil Bias, and observed, that though it 
was a book universally put into the hands of very 
young people, she thought Mademoiselle judged well in 
preferring — 

‘‘ Oh !” interrupted Mademoiselle, Je neirouve bien 
heureuse — I am quite happy, madame, to be of your 
way of linking. I never would go to choose to put 
Gil Bias into no pupil’s of mine’s hands, until they were 
perfectly mistress of de ideome de la langue.’^ 

It was not the idiom, but the morality of the book to 
which Mrs. Temple had alluded. But that, it was very 
plain, occupied no part of Mademoiselle Panache’s 
attention; her object was solely to teach her pupil 
French. “Mats j>our Miladi Augusta,” cried she, 
c^est vraiment uii petit prodige ! You, madame, you 
are a judge — On le voit hien You know how much 
difficile it be to compose French poesie, became of de 
rhymes, de masculin, feminine, de neutre genre of noun 
substantive and adjective, all to be consider in spite of de 
sense in our rhymes. Je ne m’explique pas. Mais, enfin, 
— de natives themselves very few come to write passably 
in poesie ; except it be your great poets by profession. 
Cependant, madame, Miladi Augusta — I speak de truth, 
not one vord of lies — Miladi Augusta ivrite poesie just the 
same with prose. Veritahlement comme un ange ! Et 
puis — ” continued Mademoiselle Panache. 

But she was interrupted by the entrance of -the 
little angel” and her mother. Lady Augusta wore a 
rose-coloured sash to-day, and Helen no longer preferred 
blue to pink. Not long after they were seated. Lady 

S observed that her daughter’s face was burned by 

being opposite to the fire, and, after beti^ying some 
symptoms of anxiety, cried, Mademoiselle, why will 
you always let Augusta sit so near the fire? My dear, 
now can you bear to burn your face so? Do be so 
good, for my sake, to take a screen.” 

There is*no screen in the room, ma’am, I believe,” 


100 


MORAL TALES. 


said the young lady, moving, or seeming to move her 
chair three quarters of an inch backwards. 

“No screen!’’ said Lady S , looking round. “ 1 

thought. Mademoiselle, your screens were finished.” 

“ O, oiii, madame, dey he finish; but I for get to make 
dem come down stairs.^’ 

“ I hate embroidered screens,” observed Lady S , 

turning away her head ; “ for one is always afraid to 
use them.” 

Mademoiselle immediately rose to fetch one of hers. 

“JVe vous derangez pas. Mademoiselle,’’ said Lady 

S carelessly. And whilst she was out of Hie room, 

turning to Mrs. Temple, “ Have you a French go- 
verness 1” said she. “I think you told me not.” * 

“No,” said Mrs. Temple, “ I have no thoughts of 
any governess for my daughters.” 

“ Why, indeed, I don’t know but you are quite right, 
for they are sad plagues to have in one’s house; be- 
sides, I believe too, in general, they are a sad set of peo- 
ple. But what can one do, you know ? One must 
submit to all that; for they tell me there’s no other way 
of securing to one’s children a good French pronuncia- 
tion. How will you manage about that?” 

“ Helen and Emma,” said Mrs. Temple, “ read and 
understand French as well as I could wish, and if they 
ever go to France I hope they will be able to catch the 
accent as I have never suffered them to acquire any 
fixed bad habits of speaking it.” 

O,” said Lady S , “ bad habits are what I dread 

of all things for Augusta. I assure you I was particu- 
larly nice about the choice of a governess for her ; so 
many of these sort of people come over here from Swit- 
zerland, or the French provinces, and speak a horrid 
jargoti. It’s very difficult to meet with a person you 
could entirely depefTd upon.” 

“Very difficult indeed,” said Mrs. Temple. * 

“However,” continued her ladyship, “I think my- 
self most exceedingly fortunate. I am absolutely certain 
that Mademoiselle Panache comes from Paris, and was 
born and educated there; so I feel quite at ease. And 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


101 


as to the rest,” said she, lowering her voice, but only 
lowering it sufficiently to fix Lady Augusta’s attention 
— as to the rest, I shall part with her when my 
daughter is a year or two older; so you know she can 
do no great harm. Besides,” said she, speaking louder, 

I really have great confidence in her, and Augusta 
and she seem to agree vastly well.” 

‘‘ O yes,” said Lady Augusta, Mademoiselle is ex- 
ceedingly good-natured. I am sure I like her vastly.” 

Well, that’s the chief thing. I would work upon a 
child’s sensibility; that’s my notion of education,” said 

Lady S to Mrs. Temple, affecting a sweet smile. 

“ Take care of the heart at any rate. There I’m sure, 
at least, I may depend on Mademoiselle Panache, for 
she is the best creature in the world. I’ve the highest 
opinion of her. Not that I would trust my own judg- 
ment, but she was most exceedingly well recommended 
to me.” 

Mademoiselle Panache came into the room again just 

as Lady S finished her last sentence. She brought 

one of her own worked screens in her hand. _ Helen 
looked at Lady Augusta, expecting that she would at 
least have gone to meet her governess ; but the young 
lady never offered to rise from her seat ; and when poor 
Mademoiselle presented the screen to her, she received 
it with tiie utmost nonchalance, only interrupting her 
conversations by a slight bow of the head. Helen and 
Emma looked down, feeling both ashamed and shocked 
at manners which they could neither think kind nor 
polite. However, it was no wonder that the pupil 
should not be scrupulously respectful towards a go- 
verness whom her mother treated like a waiting-maid. 

More carriages now came to the door, and the room 
was soon filled with company. The young ladies dined 
at the side-table with Mademoiselle Panache, and du- 
ring dinner Emma and Helen quite won her heart. 

Voild des demoiselles des plus poliesl" she said with 
emphasis; and it is true that they were particularly 
careful to treat her with the greatest attention and re- 
spect, not only from their general habits of good breed- 

1 2 23 


102 


MORAL TALES. 


ing, and from a sense of propriety, but from a feeling 
of pity and generosity. They could not bear to think 
that a person should be treated with neglect or insolence 
merely because their situation and rank happened to be 
inferior. 

Mademoiselle, pleased with their manners, was par- 
ticularly officious in entertaining them; and when the 
rest of the company sat down to cards, she offered to 
show them the house, which was large and magnificent. 

Helen and Emma were very glad to be relieved from 
their seats beside the card-table, and from perpetually 
hearing of trumps, odd tricks, and honours ; so that they 
eagerly accepted Mademoiselle’s proposal. 

The last room which they went into was Lady 
Augusta’s apartment, in which her writing-desk, her 
drawing-box, and her piano-forte stood. It was very 
elegantly furnished ; and at one end was a handsome 
bookcase, which immediately attracted Helen’s and 
Emma’s attention. Not Lady Augusta’s. Her at- 
tention, the moment she came into the room, was at- 
tracted by a hat, which Mademoiselle had been making 
up in the morning, and which lay half finished upon 
the sofa. “Well, really this is elegant!” said she. 
“ Certainly, Mademosielle, you have the best taste in 
the world ! Isn’t it a beautiful hat?” said she, appeal- 
ing to Helen and Emma. 

“ O yes,” replied Helen instantly ; for as she was no 
great judge, she was afraid to hazard her opinion, and 
thought it safest to acquiesce in Lady Augustas. 
Emma, on the contrary, who did not think the hat par- 
ticularly pretty, and v/ho dared to think for herself, was 
silent. And certainly it requires no common share of 
strength of mind to dare to think for one's self about a 
hat. 

In the mean time Mademoiselle put the finishing stroke 
to her work ; and observing the colour of the ribbon 
would become Helen’s complexion — “ Merveilleiise- 
ment! Permiltez, Mademoiselle, said she, putting it 
lightly upon her head — “Q?i’eZ/ees^ charmaiite! Qu^clle 
est lien comme ga! Qidle aiioder ting! Mademoisells 


mademoiselle panache. 


103 


Helen est charmante! cried the governess with enthusi- 
asm; and her pupil echoed her exclamation with equal 
enthusiasm, till Helen would absolutely have been per- 
suaded that some sudden metamorphosis had taken 
place in her appearance, if her sister’s composure had 
not happily preserved her in her sober senses. She 
could not, however, help feeling a sensible diminution 
of merit and happiness when the hat was lifted off her 
head. 

“ What a very pretty-coloured ribbon !” said she. 

‘^That’s pistachio colour,” said Lady Augusta. 

^‘Pistachio colour!” repeated Helen with admira- 
tion. 

“ Pistachio colour,” repeated her sister coolly. I did 
not know that was the name of a colour.” 

“Bon Dieu!’’ said Mademoiselle, lifting up her 
hands and eyes to heaven — “Bon Dieu! not knoxo de 
pistachea colour!^' 

Emma, neither humbled nor shocked at her own ig- 
norance, simply said to herself, “ Surely it is no crime 
not to know a name.” But Mademoiselle’s abhorrent 
and amazed look produced a very different effect upon 
Helen’s imagination ; she felt all the anguish of false 
shame, that dangerous infirmity of weak minds. 

“Bon!” said Mademoiselle Panache to herself, ob- 
serving the impression which she had made ; “ voila im 
bon sujet au mains.” And she proceeded, with more 
olRciousness perhaps than politeness, to reform certain 
minutiae in Helen’s dress, which were not precisely ad- 
justed according to what she called the mode ; she hav- 
ing the misfortune to be possessed of that intolerant spi- 
rit which admits, but of one mode ; a spirit which is 
common to all persons who have seen but little of the 
world or of good company, and who, consequently, 
cannot conceive the liberality of sentiment upon all 
matters of taste and fashion which distinguishes well- 
bred and well-educated people. 

“ Pardoimez, Mademoiselle Helen,” said she'. “ Per- 
mettez” — altering things to her fancy — “ un petit plus — 
et un petit plus : oui, commega — comme ga — Bien! Men! 


104 


MORAL TALES. 


— £.h! non! — Cela est vilaiii — affreuse! Mats tenez, 
toujours comme ga ; ressouvenez vous bien, Mademoisdh 
— Ah bon! vois voild mise d quatres epmgles.’^ 

A quatres epingles!” repeated Helen to herself. 
“ Surely,” thought Emma, “ that is a vulgar expres- 
sion. Mademoiselle is not as elegant in her taste for 
language as for dress.” Indeed, two or three technical 
expressions, which afterwards escaped from this lady, 
joined to the prodigious knowledge she displayed of the 
names, qualities, and value of ribbons, gauzes, feathers, 
&,c., had excited a strong suspicion in Emma’s mind 
that Mademoiselle Panache herself might possibly have 
had the honour to be a milliner. 

The following incident sufficiently confirmed her sus- 
picions : whilst Mademoiselle was dressing and undress- 
ing Helen, she regularly carried every pin which she 
took out to her mouth. Helen did not perceive this 
manoeuvre, it being performed with habitual celerity j 
but seeing that all the pins were vanished, she at first 
glanced her eye upon the table, and then on the ground, 
and still not seeing her pins, she felt in her pocket for 
her pincushion, and presented it — “ J'en ai assez bien 
obligee, Mademoiselle and from some secret recepta- 
cle in her mouth she produced first one pin, then an- 
other, till Emma counted seventeen, to her utter asto- 
nishment, — more, certainly, than any mouth could con- 
tain but a milliner’s. 

“Unfortunately, however, in Mademoiselle’s haste 
to speak, a pin and an exclamation, contending in her 
mouth, impeded her utterance, and put her in imminent 
danger of choking. They all looked frightened. — 
“ Qu’avez vous done cried she, with admirable dex- 
terity, — qu’avez vous done ! Ce n’est rien. Ah, si vous 
aviez vue Mademoselle Alexandre ! Ah ! dat loould 
frighten you indeed ! Many de time I see her put one 
tirty, forty, fifty, aye one hundred, two hundred in her 
mouth, and she all de time laugh, talk, eat, drink, sleep 
wid em, and no harm — nonobstant never happen Made- 
moiselle Alexandre.” r 

“And who is Mademoiselle Alexandre 7” said Emma. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 105 

Eh (lone !—fameuse marchandt de modes, rue St. 
Honore — rivale celehre de Mademoiselle BaularaJ’’ 
“Yes, I know!’’ said Lady Augusta, delighted to 
appear to know the names of two French milliners, 
without in the least suspecting that she had the honour 
to have a third for a governess. 

Emma smiled, but was silent. She fortunately pos- 
sessed a sound discriminating understanding. Observing 
and judging for herself, it was not easy to impose upon 
her by names and grimaces. 

It was remarkable that Mademoiselle Panache had 
never once attempted to alter any thing in Emma’s 
dress, and directed very little of her conversation to her, 
seeming to have an intuitive perception that she could 
make no impression ; and Lady Augusta too treated 
her with less familiarity, but with far more respect. 

Dear Helen,” said Lady Augusta, for she seemed, 
to use her own expression, to have taken a great fancy 
to her — “ dear Helen, I hope you are to be at the ball 
at the races.” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” said Helen j I believe my mother 
intends to be there.” 

Et vous said Mademoiselle Panache, you to be 
sure, I hope; — your mamma could not be so cruel as to 
leave you at home I line demoiselle faite comme vousP^ 
Helen had been quite indifferent about going to the 
ball, till these words inspired her with a violent desire 
to go there, or rather with a violent dread of the misfor- 
tune and disgrace of being left “ at home.’’ 

We shall, for fear of being tiresome, omit a long con- 
versation which passed about the dress and necessary 
preparations for this ball. It is enough to say that He- 
len was struck with despair at the idea that her mother 
probably would not procure for her all the fine things 
which Lady Augusta had, and which Mademoiselle as- 
sured her were absolutely necessary to her being “ pre- 
sentable.” In particular her ambition was excited by a 
splendid watch-chain of her ladyship’s, which Lady Au- 
gusta assured her “ there was no possibility of living 
without.” Emma, however, reflecting that she had 

23 * 


106 


MORAL TALES. 


lived all her life without even wishing for a watch-chain, 
was inclined to doubt the accuracy of her ladyship^s as- 
sertion. 

In the meantime poor Helen fell into a profound and 
somewhat painful reverie. , She stood with the watch- 
chain in her hand, ruminating upon the vast, infinite 
number of things she wanted to complete her happiness 
— things of which she had never thought before. In- 
deed, during the short time she had been in company 
with Mademoiselle Panache, a new world seemed to 
have been opened to her imagination — new wants, new 
wishes, new notions of right and wrong, and a totally 
new idea of excellence and happiness had taken pos- 
session of her mind. 

So much mischief may be done by a silly governess 
in a single quarter of an hour ! But we are yet to see 
more of the genius of Mademoiselle Panache for educa- 
tion. It happened, that, while the young ladies were bu- 
sily talking together, she had gotten to the other end of the 
room, and was as busily engaged at a looking-glass, re- 
ceding and advancing by turns, to decide the exact dis- 
tance at which rouge was liable to detection. Keeping 
her eye upon the mirror, she went backwards and back- 
warder, till unluckily she chanced to set her foot upon 
lady Augusta’s favourite little dog, who instantly set 
forth a piteous yell. 

“ O, my dog! O, my dog !” exclaimed Lady Augus- 
ta, running to the dog, and taking it into her lap — O, 
there Fanfan! where is it hurt, my poor, dear, sweet, 
darling little creature?” 

“ Chere Fanfan /” cried Mademoiselle, kneeling down, 
and kissing the offended paw — pardonnez, Fanfan!'*’* 
and they continued caressing and pitying Fanfan, so as 
to give^elen a very exalted opinion of their sensibility, 
and to make her wiser sister doubt of its sincerity. 

Longer would Fanfan have been deplored with all 
the pathos of feminine fondness, had not Mademoiselle 
suddenly shrieked and started up. What’s the mat- 
ter — what’s the matter?” cried they all at once. The 
affrighted governess pointed to her pupil’s, sash, ex- 


■ MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


107 


claiming, ^‘Regardez! regardez !” There was a mo- 
derate-sized spider upon the young lady’s sash. “ La 
voila! ah la voila!” cried she at an awful distance.” 

It is only a spider,” said Emma. 

A spider!” said Lady Augusta, and threw Fanfan 
from her lap as she rose; “where? where? on my 
sash?” 

“ Pll shake it off’,” said Helen. 

shake it, shake it 1” and she shook it herself, till 
the spider fell to the ground, who seemed to be almost 
as much frightened as Lady Augusta, and was making 
his way as fast as possible from the field of battle. 

“ Ou est il! ou est il? Le vilain animal!'’ cried 
Mademoiselle, advancing. ' “ Ah que je I’ecraise au 
moins,’’ said she, having her foot prepared. 

“Kill it!” — “O Mademoiselle, don’t kill it,” said 
Emma, stooping down to save it. “ 111 put it out of the 
window this instant.” 

^‘Ah! how can you touch it?” said Lady Augusta 
with disgust, while Emma carried it carefully in her 
hand ; and Helen, whose humanity was still proof 
against Mademoiselle Panache, ran to open the win- 
dow. Just as they had got the poor spider out of the 
reach of its enemies, a sudden gust of wind blew it back 
again ; it fell once more upon the floor. 

“ O, kill it; kill it, any body — for heaven’s sake do 
kill it !” Mademoiselle pressed forward and crushed the 
animal to death. 

Is it dead ? quite dead ?” said her pupil, approach- 
ing timidly. • 

Avancez I” said her governess, laughing. Que 
craignez vous done f Elle est morte, je vous dis." 

The young lady looked at the entrails of the spider, 
and was satisfied. 

So much for a lesson on humanity. 

ft was some time before the effects of this scene were 
effaced from the minds of either of the sisters ; but at 
length a subject very interesting to Helen was started. 
Lady Augusta mentioned the little ebony box which 
had been put into the coach, and Miss Helen’s very 


108 


MORAL TALES. 


oblig^'ing note. However, though she affected to be 
pleased, it was evident, by the haughty carelessness of 
her manner, whilst she returned her thanks, that she 
was rather offended than obliged by the present. 

Helen was surprised and mortified. The times, she 
perceived, were changed since the days of Aboulcasem. 

“ I am particularly distressed,” said Lady Augusta, 
who often assumed the language of a woman,- ‘‘ I am 
particularly distressed to rob you of your pretty prints ; 
especially as my uncle has just sent me down a^et of 
Bartolozzi’s from town.” 

But I hope. Lady Augusta, you liked the little 
prints, which are cut out. I think you said you wished 
for some such things to put on a work-basket.” 

“ O, yes. Pm^ure Pm exceedingly obliged to you 
for remembering that; I had quite forgotten it; but I 
found some beautiful vignettes the other day in our 
French books, and I shall set about copying them for 
my basket directly. PH show them to you if you 
please,” said she, going to the book-case. Mademoi- 
selle, do be so good as to reach for me those little books 
in the morocco binding.” 

Mademoiselle got upon a stool, and touched several 
books, one after another, for she could not translate 

morocco binding.” 

Which did you mean? — Dis — dis — dis, or dat?’^ 
said she. 

No, no ; none of those. Mademoiselle ; not in that 
row. Look just above your hand in the second row 
from the top.” 

“ O no, not in dat row, I hope.” 

‘‘ Why not there?” 

O, Miladi Augusta, vous sgavez bien, — ce sont Id les 
livres def endues. I dare not touch one — Vous le sgavez 
bien, Miladi ; votre chere mere.’’ » 

Miladi, votre chdre mere !” repeated the young 
lady, mimicking her governess; “pooh, nonsense; 
give me the books.” 

. **Eh non — absolument non. Croyez moi, ^lademoi- 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 109 

selle, (Ic book is not good. Ce nhst jms comme il faut ; 
it is not fit for young ladies— for nobody to read.” 

‘^How do you know that so well. Mademoiselle?’^ 
JV’importe,” said Mademoiselle, colouring, nHm- 
poi'te — je la scais. But not to talk of dat ; you know 1 
cannot disobey Miladi ; de row of Romans she forbid to 
he touch, on no account, by nobody hut herself in de 
house. You know dis. Mademoiselle Augusta. So, en 
conscience,” said she, descending from the stool — 

En conscience!” repeated Lady Augusta, with the 
impatient accent of one not used to be opposed. I 
can’t help admiring the tenderness of your conscience. 
Mademoiselle Panache. Now would you believe it,” 
continued she, turning to Emma and Helen — now, 
would you believe it — Mademoiselle has had the second 
volume of that very book under her pillow this fort- 
night. I caught her reading it one morning, and that 
was what made me so anxious to see it ; or else ten to one 
I never should have thought of the book — so, en con- 
science ! Mademoiselle.” 

Mademoiselle coloured furiously. 

**Mais vraiment, Miladi Augusta, vous me manquez 
en face!” 

The young lady made no reply, but sprang upon the 
stool, to reach the books for herself; and the goyerness, 
deeming it prudent not to endanger her authority by an 
ineffectual struggle for victory, thought proper to sound 
a timely retreat. 

^‘Allons! Mademoiselles,” cried she. “I fancy de 
tea wait by dis time. Descendans and she led the 
way. Emma instantly I'ollowed her. Stay a mo- 
ment for me, Helen, my dear.” Helen hesitated. 

Then you won’t take down the books?” said she. 
Nay, one moment; just let me show you the vig- 
nette.” 

“ No, no ; pray don’t. Mademoiselle said you must 
not.” 

Yes, she said I must not; but you see she went 
away, that I might; and so 1 will,” said Lady Augusta, 


no 


MORAL TALES. 


jumping off the stool with the red books in her hand. 
“ Now look here.” 

‘‘O no; I can’t stay indeed!” said Helen, pulling 
away her hand. 

“La! what a child you are!” said lady Augusta, 
laughing. “ Its mamma shan’t be angry with it, she 
shan’t. La! what harm can there be in looking at a 
vignette I” 

Why, to be sure, there can be no harm in looking 
at a vignette,” said Helen, submitting from the same 
species of false shame which had conquered her under- 
standing before about the pistachio colour. 

“Well, look!” said Lady Augusta, opening the 
book; “isn’t this exceedingly pretty ?” 

“ Exceedingly pretty,” said Helen, scarce seeing it. 

Now shall we go down 7” 

“ No, stay ; as you think that pretty, I can show you 
a much prettier.” 

“ Well, only one then.” 

But when she had seen that Lady Augusta still said, 
“One other,” and “one other,” till she had gone 
through a volume and a half; Helen all the while al- 
ternately hesitating and yielding, out of pure weakness 
and mauvaise honte. 

The vignettes, in fact, were not extraordinarily beau- 
tiful ; nor, if they had been, would she have taken the 
least pleasure in seeing them in such a surreptitious 
manner. She did not, however, see all the difficulties 
into which this first deviation from proper conduct 
would lead her. Alas ! no one ever can ! 

Just when they were within three leaves of the end 
of the last volume, they heard voices upon the stairs. 
“ Good God! there’s my mother ! — They’re coming ! — 
What shall we do?” cried Lady Augusta ; and though 
there could be “no harm in looking at a pint , yet the 
colour now forsook her cheek, and she stood the picture 
of guilt and cowardice. There was not time to put ti e 
books up in their places. What was to be done ? 

“ Put them into our pockets,” said Lady Augusta. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


Ill 


O no, no ! I won’t — I can’t. What meanness !” 

“ But you must. I can’t get them both into mine,” 
said Lady Augusta, in great distress. “ Dear Helen, 
for my sake !” 

Helen trembled, and let Lady Augusta put the book 
into her pocket. 

My dear,” said Lady S , opening the door just 

as this operation was effected, we are come to see your 
room; will you let us in?” 

“ O, certainly, madame,” said Lady; Augusta, com- 
manding a smile. But Helen’s face was covered with 
so deep a crimson, and she betrayed such evident symp- 
toms of embarrassment, that her mother, who came up 
with the rest of the company, could not help taking no- 
tice of it. 

Ar’n’t you well, Helen, my dear?” said her mo- 
ther. 

Helen attempted no answer. 

“ Perhaps,” said Lady Augusta, “ it was the grapes 
after dinner which disagreed with you.” 

Helen refused the look of assent which was expected; 
and at this moment she felt the greatest contempt for 
Lady Augusta, and terror to see herself led on step by 
step in deceit. 

“ My love, indeed you don’t look well,” said Lady 
S , in a tone of pity. 

It must be de grapes /” said Mademoiselle. 

‘^No, indeed,” said Helen, who felt inexpressible 
shame and anguish, no indeed, it is not the grapes ;” 
turning away, and looking up to her mother with tears 
in her eyes. 

She was on the point of producing the book before 
all the company; but Lady Augusta pressed her arm, 
and she forbore; for she thought it would be dishonour- 
able to betray her. 

Mrs. Temple did not choose to question her daughter 
farther at this time, and relieved her from confusion by 
turning to something else. 

. As they went down stairs to tea. Lady Augusta, with 
familiar fondness, took Helen’s hand. 


112 


MORAL TALES. 


‘‘You need not fear,” said Helen, withdrawing her 
hand coolly; “ I shall not betray you, Augusta.” 

“You’ll promise me that?” 

“ Yes,” said Helen, with a feeling of contempt. 

After tea. Lady Augusta was requested to sit down 
fo the piano-forte, and favour the company with an 
Italian song. She sat down, and played and sung with 
the greatest ease and gaiety imaginable ; whilst Helen, 
incapable of feeling, still more incapable of affecting 
gayety, stood beside the harpsichord, her eyes bowed 
down Avith ^‘penetrative shame.” 

“ Why do you look so wo-begone?” said Lady Au- 
gusta, as she stopped for a music book ; “ why don’t » 
you look as I do?” 

I can’t,” said Helen. 

Her ladyship did not feel the force of this answer; 
for her own self-approbation could, it seems, be re- 
covered at a very cheap rate. Half a dozen strangers 
listening, with unmeaning smiles and encomiums, to 
her execution of one of dementi’s lessons, were suffi- 
cient to satisfy her ambition. Nor is this surprising, 
when all her education had tended to teach her that 
what are called accomplishments are superior .to every 
thing else. Her drawings were next to be produced 
and admired. The table was presently covered with 
fruit, flowers, landscapes, men’s, women’s and children’s 
heads ; whilst Mademoiselle was suffered to stand 
holding a large port-folio, till she was rea'dy to faint ; 
nor was she, perhaps, the only person in the company 
who was secretly tired of the exhibition. 

These external exhibitions of accomplishments have 
of late become private nuisances. Let young wqmen 
cultivate their tastes or their understandings in any 
manner that can afford them agreeable occupation, or, 
in one word, that can make them happy. If they are 
wise, they will early make it their object to be perma- 
nently happy, and not merely to be admired for a few 
hours of their existence. 

All this time poor Helen could think of nothing but 
the book which she had been persuaded to secrete. It 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


113 


grew late in the evening, and Helen grew more and 
more uneasy at not having any opportunity of returning it. 
Lady Augusta was so busy talking and receiving com- 
pliments, that it was impossible to catch her eye. 

At length Mrs. Temple’s carriage was ordered ; and 
now all the company were seated in form, and Helen 
saw with the greatest distress that she was farther than 
ever from her purpose. She once had a mind to call 
her mother aside and consult herj but that she could 
not do, on account of her promise. 

The carriage came to the door j and whilst Helen put 
on her cloak. Mademoiselle assisted her, so that she 
could not speak to Lady Augusta. At last, when she 
was taking leave of her, she said, “ Will you let me 
give you the book?” and half drew it from her pocket. 

O, goodness ! not now j I can’t take it now.” 

What shall I do with it?” 

Why, take it home, and send it back, directed to me 
— remember — by the first opportunity — Avhen you have 
done with it.” 

‘^Done with it! I have done with it. Indeed, Lady 
Augusta, you must let me give it you now.” 

Come, Helen, we are waiting for you, my dear,” 
said Mrs. Temple j and Helen was hurried into the 
carriage with the book still in her pocket. Thus was 
she brought from one difficulty into another. 

Now she had promised her mother never to borrow 
any book without her knowledge; and certainly she 
had not the slightest intention to forfeit her word when 
she first was persuaded to look at the vignettes. “O,” 
said she to herself, “where will all this end? What 
shall I do now? Why was I so weak as to stay and 
look at the prints? And v/hy did I fancy I should like 
Lady Augusta, before I knew any thing- of her? 0, 
how much I wish I had never seen her!” 

Occupied by these thoughts all the way they were 
going home, Helen, we may imagine, did not appear 
as cheerful, or as much at ease as usual. Her mother 
and sister were conversing very agreeably ; but if she 
had been asked when the carriage stopped, she could 

k2 24 


114 


MORAL TALES. 


not have told a single syllable of what they had been 
saying. 

Mrs. Temple perceived that something hung heavy 
upon her daughter’s mind; but trusting to her long 
habits of candour and integrity, she was determined to 
leave her entirely at liberty ; she therefore wished her a 
good night, without inquiring into the cause of her me- 
lancholy. 

Helen scarcely knew what it was to lie awake at 
night; she generally slept soundly from the moment 
she went to bed till the next morning, and then awakened 
as gay as a lark. But now it was quite otherwise. She 
lay awake uneasy and restless; her pillow was wet 
with tears ; she turned from side to side, but in vain ; it 
was the longest night she ever remembered. She 
wished a thousand times for mprning; but when the 
morning came she got up with a very heavy heart; all 
her usual occupations had lost th'eir charms ; and what 
she felt the most painful was, her mother’s kind, open, 
unsuspicious manner. She had never, at least she had 
never for many years, broken her word ; she had long 
felt the pleasure of integrity, and knew how to estimate 
its loss. 

‘‘ And for what,” said Helen to herself, have I for- 
feited this pleasure ? for nothing.” 

But besides this, she was totally at a loss to know 
what step she was next to take ; nor could she consult 
the friends she had always been accustomed to apply to 
for advice. Two ideas of honour, two incompatible ideas, 
were struggling in her mind. She thought that she 
should not betray her companion, and she knew that 
she ought not to deceive her mother. She was fully 
resolved never to open the book which she had in her 
pocket, but yet she was to keep it she knew not how 
long. Lady Augusta had desired her to send it home ; 
but she did not see how this was to be accomplished 
without having recourse to the secret assistance of ser- 
vants, a species of meanness to which she had never 
stooped. She thought she saw herself involved in in- 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


115 


extricable difficulties. She knew not what to do; she 
laid her head down upon her arms and wept bitterly. 

Her mother just then came into the room. 

‘‘Helen, my dear,” said she, without taking any no- 
tice of her tears, “ here’s a fan, which one of the ser- 
vants just brought out of the carriage. I find it was 
left there by accident all night. The man tells me that 
Mademoiselle Panache put it into the front pocket, and 
said it was a present from Lady Augusta to Miss He- 
len.” It was a splendid French fan. 

“ O,” said Helen, “I can’t take it! I can’t take any 
present from Lady Augusta — I wish — ” 

“ You wish perhaps,” said Mrs. Temple, smiling, 
“that you had not begun the' traffic of presents; but 
since you have, it would not be handsome, it would 
not be proper, to refuse the fan.” 

“ But I must — I will refuse it,” said Helen. “ O, 
mother I you don’t know how unhappy I am!” She 
paused- Didn’t you see that something was the mat- 
ter, madam, when you came up yesterday into Lady 
Augusta’s room!” 

“ Y^es,” said her mother, “ I did ; but I did not choose 
to inquire the cause. I thought if you had wished I 
should know it that you would" have told it to me. You 
are now old enough, Helen, to be treated with confi- 
dence.” 

“ No,” said Helen, bursting into tears, “ I am not, 
indeed I am not. I have — but O, mother! the worst 
of all is, that I don’t know whether I should tell you 
any thing about it or not — I ought not to betray any 
bo^y ; ou^ht I ?” 

“ Certainly not. And as to me, the desire you now 
show to be sincere is enough ; you are perfectly at 
liberty. If I can assist to advise you my dear, I will ; 
but I do not want to force any secret from you : do 
what you think right and honourable.” ' 

“But I have done what is very dishonourable,” said 
Helen. “ At least I may tell you all that concerns my- 
self. I am afraid you will think I have broken my pro- 
mise,” said she, drawing the book from her pocket. 


,16 


MORAL TALES. 


“ I havt brought home this book.’^ She paused, and 
seemed to wait for her mother’s reproaches ; but her mo- 
ther was silent; she did not look angry, but surprised 
and sorry. 

“ Is this all you wished to say ?” 

All that I can say,” replied Helen. Perhaps if you 
heard the whole story you might think me less to blame, 
but I cannot tell it to you. I hope you will not ask me 
any more.” 

No,” said her mother, that I assure you I wiU 
not.” 

And now, mother, will you — and you’ll set my 
heart at ease again — will you tell me what I shall do 
with the book?” 

That I cannot possibly do. I cannot advise when 
I don’t know the circumstances. I pity you, Helen, but 

cannot help you. You must judge for yourself.” 

Helen, after some deliberation, resolved to write a 
note to Lady Augusta, and to ask her mother to send it. 

Her mother sent it, without looking at the direction. 

‘^O, mother ! how good you are to me !” said Helen. 
''And now, madam, what shall be my punishment?” 

" It will be a very severe punishment, I’m afraid ; 
but it is not in my power to help it. My confidence in 
you does not depend upon myself; it must always de- 
pend upon you.” 

" O, have I lost your confidence ?” 

"Not lost, but lessened it,” said her mother. "I 
cannot possibly feel the same confidence in you now 
that I did yesterday morning ; I cannot feel the same 
dependence upon a person who has deceived me, as 
upon one who never had — Could you ?” 

"No certainly,” said Helen, with a deep sigh. 

" O,” said she to herself, " if Lady Augusta knew 
4ie pain she has cost me! But I’m sure, however, 
^e’ll tell her mother all the affair when she reads my 
note.” 

Helen’s note contained much eloquence, and more 
simplicity ; but as to the effect upon Lady Augusta, 
she calculated ill. No ant ^er was returned bu^ a few 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


117 


ostensible lines: — “’Lady Augusta’s compliments, and 
she was happy to hear Miss Helen T. was better,” &c. 
And strange to tell, when they met about three weeks 
after at a ball in town. Lady Augusta did not think pro- 
per to take any notice of Helen or Emma. She looked 
as if she had never seen them before, and by a haughty 
stare — for girls can stare now almost as well as women 
— cancelled all her former expressions of friendship for 
her “dear Helen.” It is to be observed, that she was 
now in company with two or three young ladies of 
higher rank, whom she thought more fashionable, and 
consequently more amiable. 

Mrs. Temple was by no means sorry to find this in- 
timacy between Lady Augusta and her daughter dis- 
solved. 

I am sure the next time,” said Helen, I’ll take 
care not to like a stranger merely for having a blue 
sash.” 

“ But, indeed,” said Emma, “I do think Mademoi- 
selle Panache, from all I saw of her, is to blame for 
many of Lady Augusta’s defects.” 

“ For all of them. I’ll answer for it,” said Helen. 
“ I would not have a French governess for the world. 

Lady S might well say they were a sad set of peo- 

ple.” 

“ That was too general an expression, Helen,” said 
Mrs. Temple; “and it is neither wise nor just to judge 
of any set of people by an individual, whether that in- 
dividual be good or bad. All French governesses are 
not like Mademoiselle Panache.” 

Helen corrected her expression, and said. ^‘Well, 
I mean I would not for the world have such a governess 
as Mademoiselle Panache.” 

24 ^^ 


118 


MORAL TALES. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


PART II. 

The tendency of any particular mode of education is 
not always perceived before it is too late to change the 
habits or the character of the pupil. To superficial ob- 
servers, children of nearly the same age, often seem 
much alike in manners and disposition, who, in a few 
years afterward, appear in every respect strikingly dif- 
ferent. We have given our readers some idea of the 
manner in which Mrs. Temple educated her daughters, 
and some notion of the mode in which Lady Augusta 
was managed by Mile. Panache : the difference between 
the characters of Helen and Lady.Augusta, though visi- 
ble even at the early age of twelve or thirteen to an in- 
telligent mother, was scarcely noticed by common ac- 
quaintance, who contented themselves with the usual 
phrases, as equally applicable to both the young ladies. 

Upon my word. Lady Augusta and Miss Helen Temple 
are both of them very fine girls, and very highly accom- 
plished, and vastly well educated, as I understand. I 
really cannot tell which to prefer. Lady Augusta, to be 
sure, is rather the taller of the two, and her manners 
are certainly more womanly and fashioned than Miss 
Helen’s ; but then Miss Helen Temple has something of 
simplicity about her that some people think very en- 
gaging. For my part I don’t pretend to judge — girls 
alter so ; there’s no telling at twelve years old what they 
may turn out at sixteen.” 

From twelve to sixteen Lady Augusta continued under 
the direction of Mile. Panache ; while her mother, con- 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


119 


tent with her daughter’s progress in external accom- 
plishments, paid no attention to the cultivation of her 

temper or her understanding. Lady S lived much 

in what is called the world ; was fond of company, and 
fonder of cards ; sentimentally anxious to be thought a 
good mother, but indolently willing to leave her daugh- 
ter wholly to the care of a French governess, whose 
character she had never taken the trouble to investigate. 

Not that Lady S could be ignorant that, however ' 

well qualified to teach the true French pronunciation, 
she could not be a perfectly eligible companion for her 
daughter as she grew up : her ladyship intended to part 
with the governess when Lady Augusta was fifteen ; but 
from day to day, and from year to year, this was put 

off: sometimes Lady S thought it a pity to dismiss 

Mademoiselle, because she was the best creature in the 
world 5” sometimes she rested content with the idea that 
six months more or less could not signify ; till at length 
family reasons obliged her to postpone Mademoiselle’s 
dismission : part of the money intended for the payment 
of the governess’s salary had been unfortunately lost by 
the mother at the card-table. Lady Augusta conse- 
quently continued under the auspices of Mile. Panache 
till her ladyship was eighteen, and till her education was 
supposed to be entirely completed. 

In the mean lime Mile. Panache endeavoured, by all 
the vulgar arts of flattery, to ingratiate herself with her 
pupil, in hopes that from a governess she might become 
a companion. The summer months seemed unusually 
long to the impatient young lady, whose imagination 
daily anticipated the glories of her next winter’s cam- 
paign. Towards the end of July, however, a reinforce- 
ment of visiters came to her mother’s, and the present 
began to engage some attention as well as the future. 
Among these visiters was Lord George , a young no- 

bleman near twenty-one, who was heir to a very consider- 
able fortune. We mention his fortune because it 
was \i\s first merit, even in his own opinion. Cold, silent, 
selfish, supercilious, and silly, there appeared nothing in 
him to engage the affections or to strike the fancy of a 


120 


3IORAL TALES. 


fair lady ; but Lady Augusta’s fancy was not fixed upon 
liis lordship’s character or manners, and much that 
might have disgusted, consequently escaped her observa- 
tion. Her mother had not considered the matter very 
attentively j but she thought that this young nobleman 
might be no bad match for her Augusta, and she trusted 
that her daughter’s charms would make their due in- 
pression on his heart. Some weeks passed away in 
fashionable negligence of the lady on his part, and alteF- 
nate pique and coquetry on hers, while, during these 
operations, her confidante and governess was too much 
occupied with her own manoeuvres to attend to those 
of her pupil. Lord George had with him upon this visit 
a Mr. Dashwood, who was engaged to accompany him 
upon his travels, and who had the honour of being his 
lordships tutor. At the name of a tutor let no one pic- 
ture to himself a gloomy pedant; or yet a man whose 
knowledge, virtue, and benevolence would command the 
respect or win the affections of a youth. Mr. Dash- 
wood could not be mistaken for a pedant, unless a cox- 
comb be a sort of pedant. Dashwood pretended neither 
to win affection nor to command respect ; but he was, 
as his pupil emphatically swore, “ the best fellow in the 
world.” Upon this best fellow in the world Mile. Pa- 
nache fixed her sagacious hopes ; she began lo think that 
it would be infinitely better to be the wife of the gallant 
Mr. Dashwood than the humble companion or the 
slighted governess of the capricious Lady Augusta. 
Having thus far opened the views and characters of these 
various personages, we shall now give our readers an 
opportunity of judging of them by their words and 
actions. 

You go with us, my lord, to ihe archery-meeting 
this evening?” said Lady S ,as she rose from break- 

fast : his lordship gave a negligent assent. 

“Ah!” exclaimed Mile. Panache, turning eagerly to 
Dashwood, “ have you seen de uniformed — C’est charm- 
ant ; and I have no small hand in it.” 

Dashwood paid the expected compliment to her taste. 
“ Ah! non,” said she, “ you are too good, too flattering; 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


121 


but you must tell me your judgment without fiatiery. 
Voiis etes homnie de gout, though an Englishman, — 
you see I have got no prejuges’^ Dashwood bowed. 
** Allons!” said she, starling up with vast gayety ; “ we 
have got no time to lose. I have de rubatis to put to de 
bow ; I must go and attend my Diane.” 

“ Attend her Diane !” repeated Dashwood, the moment 
the door was shut, and he was left alone with Lord 
George; ^‘attend her Diane! a very proper attendant.” 
Lord George was wholly indifferent to propriety or im- 
propriety upon this as upon all other subjects. “ What 
are we to do with ourselves, I wonder, this morning?” 
said he, with his customary yawn ; and he walked to- 
wards the window. The labour of finding employment 
for his lordship always devolved upon his companion. 

I thought, my lord,” said Dashwood, ‘^you talked yes- 
terday of going upon the water; the river is very 
smooth, and I hope we shall have a fine day.” 

“ I hope so too ; but over the hill yonder it looks con- 
founded black, hey? Well, at any rate, we may go 
down and make some of them get ready to go with us. 
ni take my black Tom — he’s a handy fellow.” 

“ But if you take black Tom,” said Dashwood, laugh- 
ing, “ we must not expect to have the ladies of our 
party ; for you know Mademoiselle has an unconquera- 
ble antipaty, as she calls it, to a negro.” 

Lord George declared that for this very reason he 
would order black Tom down to the water-side, and that 
he should enjoy her affectation, or her terror, whichever 
it was, of all things. “ 1 suppose,” said he, “ she’ll 
scream as loud as Lady Augusta screamed at a frog the 
other day.” 

‘^I’ll lay you a wager I spoil your sport, my lord; I’ll 
lay you a guinea I get Mademoiselle into the boat with- 
out a single scream,” said Dashwood. 

“Done!” said Lord George. “Two to one she 
screams.” 

“ Done !” said Dashwood ; and he hoped that by pro- 
posing this bet he had provided his pupil with an object 
for the whole morning. But Lord George was not so 
2l 


122 


MORAL TALES. 


easily roused immediately after breakfast. ‘‘It looks 
terribly like rain/’ said he, going back and forward irre- 
solutely between the door and the. window. “ Do you 
think it will rain, hey ?” 

“ No, no ; I’m sure it will not rain.” 

“ I wouldn’t lay two to one of that, however: look at 
this great cloud that’s coming.” 

“Oh! it will blow over.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Lord George, shaking his 
head with great solemnity. “ Which way is the wind ?” 
opening the window. “Well, I believe it may hold up, 
hey?” 

“ Certainly — I think so.” 

“ Then I’ll call black Tom, hey ? — though I think one 
grows tired of going upon the water,” muttered his lord- 
ship, as he left the room. “Couldn’t one find something 
better?” 

“ Nothing better,” thought Dashwood, “but to hang 
yourself, my lord, which. I’ll be bound, you’ll do before 
you are forty, for want of something better. But that’s 
not my affair.” 

“ Where’s Mademoiselle?” cried Lady Augusta, en- 
tering hastily, with a bow and arrow in her hand : 
“I’ve lost my quiver: where’s Mademoiselle?” 

“ Upon my word I don’t know,” said DasKwood, as- 
suming an air of interest. 

“ You don’t know, Mr. Dashwood !” said Lady Au- 
gusta, sarcastically ; “ that’s rather extraordinary. I 
make it a rule whenever I want Mademoiselle to ask 
where you are, and I never found myself disappointed 
before.” 

“ I am sorry. Madam, you should ever be disappoint- 
ed,” said Dashwood, laughing. “ Is this your oton 
taste ?” added he, taking the painted bow out of her hand. 
“It’s uncommonly pretty.” 

“ Pretty or not. Lord George did not think it worth 
while to look at it last night. His lordship will go 
through the world mighty easily, don’t you think so, 
Mr. Dashwood ?” — Dashwood attempted an apology for 
his pupil, but in such a sort, as if he did not mean it to 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


123 


be accepted, and then, returning the bow to her lady- 
ship's hand, paused, sighed, and observed, that, upon 
the whole, it was happy for his lordship that he possess- 
ed so much nonchalance. Persons of a different 
cast," continued he, “ cannot, as your ladyship justly 
observes, expect to pass through life so easily." This 
speech was pronounced in a tone so different from 
Dashwood’s usual careless gayety, that Lady Augusta 
could not help being struck with it ; and, by her vanity, 
it was interpreted precisely as the gentleman wished. 
Rank and fortune were her serious objects, but she had 
no objection to amusing herself with romance. The idea 
of seeing the gay, witty Mr. Dashwood metamorphosed, 
by the power of her charms, into a despairing, sighing 
swain, played upon her imagination, and she heard his 
first sigh with a look which plainly showed how ^vell 
she understood its meaning. 

Why now, was there ever any thing so provoking!" 
cried Lord George, swinging himself into the room. 

‘‘ What’s the matter, my lord said Dashwood. 

Why, don’t you see it’s raining as hard as it can 
rain?" said his lordship, with the true pathos of a man 
whose happiness is dependent upon the weather. His 
scheme of going upon the water being now impractica- 
ble, he lounged about the room all the rest of the morn- 
ing, supporting that miserable kind of existence which 
idle gentlemen are doomed to support, they know not 
how, upon a rainy day. Neither Lady Augusta nor 
her mother, in calculating the advantages and disadvan- 
tages of an alliance with his lordship, ever once consi- 
dered his habits of listless idleness as any objection in a 
companion for life. 

After dinner the day cleared up — the ladies were 
dressed in their archery uniform — the carriages came to 
the door, and Lord George was happy in the prospect 
of driving his new phaeton. Dashwood handed the la- 
dies to their coach; for his lordship was too much en- 
gaged in confabulation v/ith his groom, on the merits 
of his off-leader, to pay attention to any thing else upon 
earth. 


124 


MORAL TALES. 


His phaeton was presently out of sight, for he gloried 
in driving as fast as possible; and, to reward his exer 
tions, he had the satisfaciion of Jiearing two strangers, 
as he passed them, say — “ Ha ! upon my word, those 
horses go well !” A postillion at a turnpike-gate, more- 
over, exclaimed to a farmer, who stood with his mouth 
wide open — “ There goes Lord George ! he cuts as fine 
a figure on the road as e’er a man in England.” Such 
was the style of praise of which this young nobleman 
was silly enough to be vain. 

I’ve been in these three quarters of an hour!” cried 
he, exuliingly, as Lady S got out of her coach. 

“There has been no shooting yet though, I hope?” 
said Lady Augusta. 

^‘No, no, ma’am,” replied Dashwood; “ but the ladies 
are all upon the green — a crowd of fair competitors; 
but I’d bet a thousand pounds upon your ladyship’s ar- 
rows. Make way there — make way,” cried the man of 
gallantry, in an imperious tone, to some poor people, 
who crowded round the carriage; and, talking and laugh- 
ing loud, he pushed forward, making as much bustle in 
seating the ladies as they could have wished. Being 
seated, they began to bow and nod to their acquaintance. 
“ There’s Mrs. Temple hnd her daughters,” said Lady 
S . 

“Where, ma’am?” said Lady Augusta : “ I’m sure 
I did not expect to meet them here. Where are they ?” 

“Just opposite to us. Pray, Mr. Dashwood, who is 
that gentleman in brown, who is talking to Miss Helen 
Temple?” 

“ Upon my word, I don’t know, madam ; he bowed 
just now to Lord George.” 

“ Did he ?” said 'Lady Augusta. “ I wonder who 
he is.” 

Lord George soon satisfied her curiosity, for, coming 
up to them, he said, negligently, “ Dashwood, there’s 
young Montague, yonder.” 

“ Ha! is that young Montague? Well, is his father 
dead ? What has he done with that old quiz ?” 

“Ask him yourself,” said Lord George sullenly ; “ i 


MADEMOISELLE PAxNACHE. 125 

asked* him just now, and he looked as black as Novem- 
ber.’’ 

“ He was so fond of his father — it is quite a bore,” 
said Dashwood. ‘ T think he’ll be a quiz himself in due 
time.” 

“ No,” said Lord George, he knows better than that 
too in some things. He has a monstrous fine horse 
with him here ; and that’s a good pretty girl that he’s 
going to marry.” 

“ Is he going to be married to Miss Helen Temple ?” 
said Lady S . Who is he, pray ? I hope a suit- 

able match 1” 

“'That I can’t tell, for I don’t know what she 
replied Lord George. “ But Montague can afford to 
do as he pleases — very good family — fine fortune.” 

‘^^Yes; old quiz made an excellent nurse to his es- 
tate,” observed Dashwood ; “ he owes him some gra- 
titude for that,” 

“ Is not he very young to settle in the world ?” said 
Lady S . 

“Young — yes — only a year dder than I am,” said 
Lord George ; “ but I knew he’d never be quiet till he 
got himself noo’icd.” 

“ I suppose he’ll be at the ball to-night,” said Lady 
Augusta, “and then we shall see something of him, 
perhaps. It’s an age since we’ve seen the Miss Tem- 
ples anywhere. I wonder whether there’s any thing 
more than repcrt, my lord, in this conquest of Miss 
Helen Temple ? Had you the thing from good au- 
thority ?” 

“ Authori^ / !” said Lord George ; “ I don’t recollect 
my authorif/, faith ! — somebody said so to me, I think. 
It’s nothin.*^ to me, at any rate.” Lady Augusta’s cu- 
riosity, however, was not quite so easily satisfied as 
his lordship’s; she was resolved to study Mr, Mon- 
tague thoroughly at the ball ; and her habitual dispo- 
sition to coquetry, joined to a dislike of poor Helen, 
which originated while they were children, made her 
form a strong desire to rival Helen in the admiration of 
this young gentleman of — “ very good family and fine 


126 


MORAL TALES. 


fortune.” Her ladyship was just falling into a reveiy 
upon this subject, when she was summoned to join the 
archeresses. 

The prize was a silver arrow. The ladies were im- 
patient to begin — the green was cleared. Some of the 
spectators took their seats on benches under the trees, 
while a party of gentlemen stood by, to supply the la> 
dies with arrows. Three ladies shot, but widely from 
the mark ; a fourth tried her skill, but no applause en- 
sued; a fifth came forward, a striking figure, elegantly 
dressed, who, after a prelude of very becoming diffidence, 
drew her bow, and took aim in the most graceful atti- 
tude imaginable. 

Who is that beautiful creature'?” exclaimed Mr. 
Montague, with enthusiasm ; and as the arrow flew 
from the bow, he started up, wishing it success. 

‘"The nearest, by six inches, that has been shot yet,” 
cried Dashwood. “Here, sir! here!” said he to Mr. 
Montague, who went up to examine the target, “this is 

Lady Augusta S ’s arrow, within the second circle, 

almost put out the bull’s eye!” The clamour of ap- 
plause at length subsiding, several other arrows were 
shot, but none came near to Lady Augusta’s, and the 
prize was unanimously acknowledged to be hers. 

The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, 
and several gentlemen tried to reach ii in vain : Mr. 
Montague sprung from the ground with great activity, 
brought down the arrow, and presented it, with an air 
of gallantry, to the fair victor. 

“ My dear Helen,” said Emma to her sister in a low 
voice, “ you are not well.” 

“I!” replied Helen, turning quickly: “why, can 
you think me so mean as to — ” 

“ Hush, hush ! you don’t consider how loud you are 
speaking.” 

“Am I?” said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her 
tone ; “ but then why did you say I was not well '?” 

“ Because you looked so pale.” 

“Pale! I’m sure I don’t look pale,” said Helen, 
do 11” ' 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


127 


Not now, indeed,” said Emma, smiling. 

Was it not an excellent shot?” said Mr. Montague, 
returning to them; “ but you were not near enough to 
see it; do come and look at it.” "^rs. Temple rose and 
followed him. — “ I can’t say,” continued he, “ that I 
particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is 
a surprising shot.” 

“ It really is a surprising shot,” said Helen, looking 
at it quite at ease. But a moment afterward she obser- 
ved that Mr. Montague’s eyes were not intent upon the 
surprising shot, but were eagerly turned to another side 
of the green, where, illuminated by the rays'of the set- 
ting sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver 
arrow, totally unconscious, as he imagined, either of 
her own charms or his admiration. — Are you ac- 
quainted with Lady Augusta?” said Mr. Montague. 

A"es,” said Mrs. Temple. “Are you?” • 

^‘Not yet; but I have met her mother often in town 
— a silly card-playing woman. I hope her daughter is 
as little like her in her mind as in her person.” Here 
Mr. Montague paused, for they had walked up quite 
close to the seemingly unconscious beauty. — “Oh, Mrs. 
Temple!” said she, starting, and then recovering her- 
self, with an innocent smile — “is it you? I beg ten 
thousand pardons,” and, offering a hand to Helen and 
Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involun- 
tarily drew back her hand, with as much coldness as 
she could, without being absolutely rude. 

It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to 
begin at ten, the ladies called for their carriages, that 
they might drive to their lodgings, in an adjacent town, 
to change their dress. In the crowd, Helen happened 

to be pretty close behind Lady S , so close, that she 

could not avoid hearing hser conversation. 

“ Dear ma’am I” an elderly lady in black was saying 
to her, “I can assure you, your ladyship has been mis- 
informed, I assure you, it is no such thing. He’s a 
relation of the family — he has paid a long visit in this 
country, but then it is a parting visit to his uncle : he 
sets out immediately for Italy, I’m told. I assure you. 


128 


MORAL TALES. 


> 


your ladyship has been misinformed ; he and his uncle 
are often at Mrs. Temple’s; but depend upon it, he has 
no thoughts of Miss Helen.” 

These words struck Helen to the heart; she walked 
on, leaning upon her sister’s arm, who fortunately hap- 
pened to know where she was going. Emma helped 
her sister to recollect that it was necessary to get into 
the carriage when the step was let down. The carriage 
presently stopped with them at the inn, and they were 
sbowh to their rooms. Helen sat down, the moment 
she got up stairs, without thinking of dressing; and her 
mother’s hair was half finished, when she turned round 
and said, “Why, Helen, my 'dear! you certainly will 
not be ready.” 

“Slian’t I, ma’am?” said Helen, starting up. “Is 
there any occasion that we should dress any more ?” 

“ Nay, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, laughing, “look 
in the glass at tmur hair; it has been blown all over 
your face by the wind.” 

“ It is a great deal of useless trouble,” said Helen, as 
she began the duties of the toilet. 

“Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness,” said 
her rnother. 

“No, indeed, mamma; I’m not lazy. But I really 
don’t think it signifies. Nobody will lake notice how I 
am dressed, I dare say.” 

“A sudden fit of humility, then?” said Mrs. Temple, 
still laughing. 

“No ma’am; but you have often told us how little it ^ 
signifies. When the ball is over, every thing about it is 
forgotten in a few hours.” 

“ O, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen?” 

“No, indeed, mother,” said Helen, sighing; “I’m 
sure I don’t pretend to any philosophy.” 

“Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?” 

“No, indeed, ma’am.” 

“No, indeed, ma’am!” said Mrs. Temple, still rally- 
ing her. — “Why, Helen, my dear, you have answered 
‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ to every thing I’ve said this half- 
hour.” 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


129 


No, in deed,- mot her,” said Helen’; but I assure you, 
ma’am,” continued she, in a hurried manner, ‘Hf you 
would only give me leave to explain — ” 

My dear child,” said Mrs Temple, this is no time 
for explanations : make haste and dress yourself, and 
follow me down to tea.” Mr. Montague was engaged 
to drink tea with Mrs. Temple. 

How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the 
mind in the course of a few minutes! 

“ I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust,” said Helen to 
herself. “Because Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, 
am I vexed? Why should I be displeased with Mr. 
Montague’s admiring her? I will appear no more like 
a fool; and Heaven forbid I should become envious.” 

As this last thought took possession of her mind, she 
finished dressing herself, and went with Emma down to 
tea. The well-wrought-up dignity with which Helen 
entered the parlour was, however, thrown away upon 
this occasion; for opposite to her mother at the tea-table 
there appeared, instead of Mr. Montague, only an empty 
chair, and an empty tea-cup and saucer, with a spoon 
in it. He was gone to the ball; and when Mrs. Temple 
and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the 
bottom of the country-dance, talking in high spirits to 
his partner. Lady Augusta, who, in the course of the 
evening, cast many looks of triumph upon Helen. But 
Helen kept to her resolution of commanding her own 
mind, and maintained an easy serenity of manner, which 
the consciousness of superior temper never fails to be- 
stow. Towards the end of the night, she danced one 
dance with Mr. Montague, and as he was leading her 
to her place. Lady Augusta, and two or three of her 
companions came up, all seemingly stifling a laugh. 
“What is the matter?” said Helen. “Why, my dear 
creature,” said Lady Augusta, who still apparently la- 
boured under a violent inclination to laugh, and whis- 
pering to Helen, but so loud that she could distinctly be 
overheard — “ you must certainly be in love.” 

“Madam!” said Helen, colouring, and much dis- 
tressed. 


130 


MORAL TALES. 


“Yes ; you certainly must,” pursued Lady Augusta, 
rudely; for ladies of quality can be as rude, sometinaes 
ruder than other people. “Must not she. Lady Di,” 
appealing to one of lier companions, and laughing affect- 
edly — “ must not she be either in love, or out of her 
senses 1 Pray, Miss Temple, put out your foot.” Helen 
put out her foot. 

“ Ay, that’s the black one — well, the other.” Now 
the other was white. The ill-bred raillery commenced. 
Helen, though somewhat abashed, smiled with great 
good-humour, and walked on towards her seat. 

° “ What is the matter, my dear?” said her mother. 

“ Nothing, madam,” answered Mr. Montague, ^‘but 
that Miss Helen Temple’s shoes are odd, and her temper 
— even.” These few words which might pass in a ball- 
rouin, were accompanied with a look of approbation, 
which made her ample amends for the pain she had felt. 
He then sat down by Mrs. Temple, and, without imme- 
diately adverting to any one, spoke with indignation of 
coquetry, and Tamenled that so many beautiful girls 
should be spoiled by affectation. 

“If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame?” 
said Mrs. Temple. “ If young women were not deceived 
into a belief that affectation pleases, they would scarcely 
trouble themselves to practise it so much.” 

“Deceived!” said Mr. Montague, “but is anybody 
deceived by a person’s saying ‘ I have the honour to be, 
madam, your obedient humble servant?’ Besides, as to 
pleasing — what do we mean ? pleasing for a moment, 
for a day, or for life?” 

“Pleasing for a moment,” said Helen, smiling, “is 
of some consequence ; for, if we take care of the mo- 
ments, the years will take care of themselves, you 
know.” 

“Pleasing for o?ie moment, though,” said Mr. Mon- 
tague, “ is very different, as you must perceive, from 
pleasing every moment.” 

Here the country-dances suddenly stopped, and three 
or four couple were thrown into confusion. The gentle- 
men were stooping down, as if looking for something on 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


131 


the floor. Oh, I beg, I insist upon it ; you can’t think 
ho\vmuch you distress me!” cried a voice which sounded 
like Lady Augusta’s. Mr. Montague immediately went 
to see what was the matter. “It is only my brace- 
let,” said she, turning to him. “ Don’t, pray don’t 
trouble yourself,” cried she, as he stooped to assist in 
collecting the scattered pearls, which she received with 
grace in the whitest hand imaginable. “ Nay, now I 
must insist upon it,” said she to Mr. Montague as he 
stooped again — “ you shall not plague yourself any 
longer.” And in her anxiety to prevent him from 
plaguing himself any longer, she laid upon his arm the 
white hand which he had an instant before so much 
admired. Whether all Mr. Montague’s sober contempt 
of coquetry was at this moment the prevalent feeling in 
his mind, we cannot presume to determine; we must 
only remark, that the remainder of the evening was de- 
voted to Lady Augusta; he sat beside her at supper and 
paid her a thousand compliments, which Helen in vain 
endeavoured to persuade herself meant nothing more 
than — “I am, madam, your obedient humble servant.” 

“It is half after two,” said Mrs. Temple, when she 
rose to go. 

“ Half after two I” said Mr. Montague, as he handed 
Mrs. Temple to her carriage ; “bless me ! can it be so 
late?” 

All the way home, Emma and Mrs. Temple were 
obliged to support the conversation ; for Helen was so 
extremely entertained with watching the clouds passing 
over the moon, that nothing else could engage her atten- 
tion. 

The gossiping old lady’s information respecting Mr. 
Montague was as accurate as the information of gossips 
usually is found to be. Mr. Montague, notwithstand- 
ing her opinion and sagacity, had thoughts of Miss Helen 
Temple. During some months which he had spent at 
his uncle’s, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, he had 
had opportunities of studying Helen’s character and 
temper, which he found perfectly well suited to his 
own; but he had never yet declared his attachment to 


132 


MORAL TALES. 


her. Things were in this undecided situation when he 
saw, and was struck with the beauty of Lady Au^sta 

S , at this archery-balH' Lord George introduced 

him to Ladv S • and, in consequence of a pressing 

invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to 
spend a few days at S Hall. 

“ So Mr. Montague is going to spend a week at 

S Hall, 1 find,’^ said Mrs. Temple, as she and her 

daughters were sitting at work, the morning after the 
archery-ball. To this simple observation of Mrs. Tem- 
ple a silence, which seemed as if it never would be 
broken, ensued. 

‘‘ Helen, my dear!’’ said Mrs. Temple in a soft voice. 

Ma’am!” said Helen, starting. 

‘‘You need not start so, my dear; I am not going to 
say any thing very tremendous. When you and your 
sister were children, if you remember, I often used to 
tell you that I looked forward with pleasure to the time 
when I should live with you as friends and equals. 
That time is come; and I hope, now that your own 
reason is sufficiently matured to be the guide of your 
conduct, that you do not think I any longer desire you 
to be governed by my ivill. Indeed,” continued she, 
“ I consider you as my equals in every respect but in 
age; and I wish to make that inequality useful to you, 
by giving you, as far as I can, that advantage which 
only age can give — experience.” 

“ You are very kind, dear mother,” said Helen. 

“ But you must be sensible,” said Mrs. Temple, in a 
graver tone, “ that it will depend upon yourselves, in a 
great measure, whether I can be so much your friend 
as I shall wish.” 

“O mother,” said Helen, “ Z>e my friend! I shall 
never have a better; and, indeed, I want a friend,” 
added she, the tears starting from her eyes. “You’ll 
think me very silly, very vain. He never gave me any 
reason, I’m sure, to think so, but I did fancy that Mr. 
Montague liked me.” 

“And,” said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter’s 
hand, “without being very silly or very vain, may not 


Mademoiselle panache. 


133 


one sometimes bo 'mistaken? Then you thought vou 
had won Mr. Montague’s heart? But what did you 
think about your own? Take care you don’t make 
another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you thought he 
could never win yours?” 

“ 1 never thought much about that,” replied tlelen, 
“ till yesterday.” 

“And to-day,” said Mrs. Temple — “what do you 
think about it to-day?” 

“Why,” said Helen, “ don’t you think, mother, that 
Mr. Montague has a great many good qualities?” 

“ Yes ; a great many good qualities, a great many 
advantages, and, among them, the power of pleasing 
you.” 

“ He would not think that any a(J vantage,” said 
Helen ; “ therefore I should be sorry that he had it.” 

“ And so should I,” said Mrs. Temple, “ be very 
sorry that my daughter’s happiness should be out of her 
own power.” 

“ It is the uncertainty that torments me,” resumed 
Helen, after a pause. “One moment I fancy that he 
prefers me, the next moment I am certain he prefers 
another. Yesterday, when we were coming away 
from the green, I heard Mrs. Hargrave say to Lady 

S ; but why, mother, should I take up your time 

with these minute circumstances? I ought not to think 
any more about it.” 

“ Ought not!” repeated Mrs. Temple; “ my dear, it 
is a matter of prudence, rather than duty. By speaking 
to your mother with so much openness, you secure her 
esteem and affection; and among the goods of this life, 
you will find the esteem and affection of a mother 
Avorth having,” concluded Mrs. Temple, Avilh a smile ; 
and Helen parted from her mother Avith a feeling of gra- 
titude which may securely be expected from an ingenu- 
ous, Avell-educated daughter Avho is treated Avith similar 
kindness. 

No one was ready for breakfiist the morning that Mr. 

Montague arrived at S Hall, and he spent an hour 

alone in the breakfast- room. At length the silence Avas 
M 


134 


MOKAL TALES. 


interrupted by a shrill female voice, which, as it ap- 
proached nearer, he perceived to be the voice of a for- 
eigner, half sulTocated with ineffectual desire to make 
her anger intelligible. He could only distinguish the 
words — “ I ring, ring, ring, ah, twenty time, and no- 
body mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all.^^ 
With a violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, 
and Mile. Panache, little expecting to find anybody 
there, entered, volubly repeating — “ Dey let me ring, 
ring, ring!” Surprised at the sight of a gentleman, and 
a young gentleman, she repented having been so loud 
in her anger. However, upon the second reconnoitering 
glance at Mr. Montague, she felt much in doubt how 
to behave towards him. Mademoiselle boasted often, 
of the well-bred instinct by which she could imme- 
diately distinguish “uri homme coinme il fauV’ from any 
other j yet sometimes, like Falstaff’s, her instinct was 

fallacious. Recdllecting that Lady S had sent for 

an apothecary, she took it into her head that Mr. Mon- 
tague was this apothecary. “ Miladi is not visible yet, 
sir,” said she; “ does she know you are here?” 

“I hope not, ma’am; for I should be very sorry she 
were to be disturbed, after sitting up so late last night.” 

O dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, pardon- 
nez, some excellent white wine whey out of my own 
head last night, when she got into her bed. I hope 
you don’t make no objection to white wine whey, sir?” 

I ! — not in the least, ma’am.” 

O, Pm glad you don’t disapprove of what Pve 
done I You attend many family in this country, sir?” 

“Madam!” said Mr. Montague, taking an instant’s 
time to consider what she could mean by attend. 

“You visit many family in this country, sir!” per- 
sisted Mademoiselle. 

“Very few, ma’am ; I am a stranger in this part of 
the world, except at Mrs. Temple’s.” ^ 

^‘Madame Temple, ah, oui! I know her very well; 
she has two fine daughters — I mean when dey have 
seen more of de world. It’s a great pity, too, dey have 
never had de advantage of a native to teach de good 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


135 


pronunciation de la langue Frangois. Madame TerapJe 
will repent herself of dat when ii is too late, as I tell her 
always. But, sir, you have been at her house. I am 
sorry we did not hear none of de family had been indis- 
posed.” 

They are all now perfectly well, ma’am,” replied 
Mr. Montague, “ except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple 
had a slight cold last week.” 

“But she is re-establish by your advise, I suppose? 
and she — did she recommend you to miladi?”' 

“ No madam,” said Mr. Montague, not a little puz- 
zled by Mademoiselle’s phraseology : “ Lord George 
did me the honour to introduce me to Lady S- .” 

“ Ah, Milord George ! are you a long time acquainted 
wid milord?” 

“Yes, ma’am, I have known Lord George many 
years.” 

“Ah, many year! — you be de family physician, ap- 
paremmcnt ?” 

“The fiimily physician! Oh no, ma’am!” said Mr. 
Montague, smiling. 

“Eh!” said Mademosielle, “but dat is being too 
modest. Many take de Hire of physician. I’ll engage, 
wid less pretensions. And,” added she, looking gra- 
ciously, “ ahsolumcnt, I will not have you call yourself 
de family apoildcaired^ 

At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his 
family apothecary by the hand, with an air of familiarity 
which astounded Mlfdemoiselle. “ Qidest ce que chstV^ 
whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his lordship : 
“ is not dis his apcthicaire?” Dashwood, at this ques- 
tion, burst into a loud laugh. “ Mr. Montague,” cried 
he, “ have you been prescribing for Mademoiselle? she 
asks if you are not an apothecary.” 

Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, 
especially where there was a chance of throwing ridi- 
cule upon anybody superior to him in abilities, joined 
most heartily in Dashwood’s mirth ; repeating the story 
as “an excellent thing,” to every one, as they came 
down to breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom 


136 


MORAL TALES. 


he congratulated the moment she entered the room, 
upon her having danced the preceding evening with an 
apothecary. “Here he is!’’ said he, pointing to Mr. 
Montague. 

“ JVfrt chere amie! mon cceur! tink of my mistaking 
your Mr. Montague for such a sort of person? If you 
had only told me, sir, dat you were miladi Augusta’s 
partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity 
of making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat 
could not find it out. Ma chere amie! mon cceur! miladi 
Augusta, will you make my excuse?” 

“c/Vfrt chere amie! mon cceur!” repeated Mr. Mon- 
tague to himself: “is it possible that this woman can 
be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?” What was 
his surprise when he discovered that Mile. Panache had 
been her ladyship’s governess! He fell into a melan- 
choly revery for some moments. “So she has been 
educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French governess ! ” 
said he to himself; “ but that is her misfortune, not her 
fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might 
make her what he pleased.” When Mr. Montague 
recovered from his revery, he heard the company, as 
they seated themselves at the breakfast- table, begin to 
talk over th« last night’s ball. “ You did not tire your- 
self last night with dancing, my lord,” said Dashwood. 

“ No ; I hate dancing,” replied Lord George ; “ I wish 
the ladies would take to dancing with one another; I 
think that would be an excellent scheme.” An aunt of 
his lordship, who was present, took great offence at this 
suggestion of her nephew. She had been used to the 
deference paid in former times to the sex ; and she said 
she could not bear to see women give up their proper 
places in society. “ Really, George",” added she, turning 
to her nephew, “ I wish you would not talk in this man- 
ner. The young men now give themselves the strangest 

airs ! Lady S , I will expose him : do you know, last 

night he was lolling at his full length upon a bench in 
the ball-room, while three young handsome ladies were 
standing opposite to him, tired to death?” 


MADEBIOISELLE PANACHE. 


137 


‘‘They could not be more tired than I was, 1 am sure, 
ma^am.’’ 

“ Why, you had not been dancing, and they had.’^ 

“ Had thtey, ma’am ? that was not my fault. I did not 
ask ’em to dance, and I don’t see it was my business to 
ask ’em to sit down. I did not know who they were, at 
any rate,” concluded his lordship, sullenly. 

“You knew they were women, and as such entitled 
to your respect.” 

Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dash- 
wood, and pulled up his boot. 

“Another thing — you were in the house three weeks 
with Miss Earl last summer ; you met her yesterday 
evening, and you thought proper not to take the least 
notice of her.” 

“ Miss Earl, ma’am; was she there?” 

“ Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to 
her.” 

“I did not see her, ma’am.” 

“ Mrs. Earl spoke to you.” 

“I didn’t hear her, ma’am.” 

“ I told you of it at the moment.” 

“ I didn’t understand you, ma’am.” n 

“Besides, ma’am,” interposed Dashwood, “ as to 
Miss Earl, if she meant that my lord should bow to her, 
she should have courtesied first to him.” 

“ Courtesied first to him!” 

“Yes, that’s the rule — that’s the thing now. The 
ladies are always to speak first.” 

“ I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. 
Lady Augusta, what say you to all this?” 

“O, that it’s shocking, to be sure!” said Lady Au- 
gusta, “if one thinks of it; so the only way is not to 
think about it.” 

“An excellent bon-mot!” exclaimed Dashwood. “It’s 
thinking that spoils conversation, and every thing else.” 

“ But,” added Lady Augusta, who observed that her 
bon-mot was not so much admired by all the company 
as by Dashwood, “ I really only mean, that one must 
do us other people do.” 

M 2 


2G 


138 


MORAL TALES. 


“ t^ssurement,” said Mademoiselle; not dat I ap- 
prove of the want of gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. 
But I link Mademoiselle Earl is as stiff as de poker, 
and I don’t approve of dat, neider — Je n’aime pas les 
prudes, moi.” 

“ But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of 
manners?” said the old lady, gravely. 

“Dignite! Oh, I don’t say nothing against digmie, 
neider ; not but I tink de English reserve is de trop. I 
link a lady of a certain rank has always good ^n/ict^es 
enough, to be sure, and as to the rest, qnHmporte ? — dat’s 
my notions.” 

“ Mr. Montague looked with anxiety at Lady Au- 
gusta, to see what she thought of her governess’s no- 
tions; but all that he could judge from her counte- 
nance was, that she did not think at all. Well, she 
has time enough before her to learn to think,” said he 
to himself ; “ I am glad she did not assent to Mademoi- 
selle’s notion, at least. I hope she has learned nothing 
from her but ‘the true French pronunciation^ ” 

No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George 

gave his customary morning yawn, and Avalk- 

ed as usual to the window. Come,” saftl Dashwood, 
in his free manner; “come. Mademoiselle, you must 
come down with us to the water-side, and Lady Au- 
gusta, I hope.” 

^ “Ay,” whispered Lord George to Dashwood ; “ and 
let’s settle our wager about Mademoiselle and my black- 
amoor — don’t think I’ll let you off that.” 

“Off! I’m ready to double the bet, my lord,” said 
Dashwood, aloud, and in the same moment turned to 
Mademoiselle with some high-flown compliment about 
the beauty of her complexion, and the dangers of going 
without a vail on a hot sunny day. 

“Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you’ve persuaded Ma- 
demoiselle to take the vail, we’ll set out, if you please,” 
said Lady Augusta. 

Mr. Montague, who kept his attention continually 
upon Lady Augusta, was delighted to see that she wait- 
ed for the elderly lady who, at breakfast, had said so 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


139 


much in favour of dignity of manners. Mr. Montague 
did not at this moment consider that this elderly lady 
was Lord George’s aunt, and that the attention paid to 
her by Lady Augusta might possible proceed from mo- 
tives of policy, not from choice. Young men of open 
tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived 
by coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the 
meanness of their artifices. As Mr. Montague walked 
down to the river, Lady Augusta contrived to entertain 
him so completely that Helen Temple never once came 
into his mind ; though he had sense enough to perceive 
his danger, he had not sufficient courage to avoid it : it 
sometimes requires courage to fly from danger. From 
this dLgveea.hl^'tete-d^tete he was roused, however, by the 
voice of Mile. Panache, wlio, in an affected agony, was 
struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both 
her hands : “No! no! — A'on! non: I will not — I will 
not, I tell you, I will not.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Dashwoodj “but I have sworn to 
get you into the boat.” 

“ Ah ! into de boat d la bonne heure; but not wid dat 
vilain black.” 

“Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his 
man ; and you’ll acknowledge, my lord, in that case it’s 
a drawn bet,” said Dashwood. 

“ I ! not I. Pll acknowledge nothing,” said his lord- 
ship ; and he swore his black Tom should not be sent 
away ; “ he’s a capital boatman, and I can’t do without 
him.” 

“ Den I won’t stir,” said Mademoiselle, passionately, 
to Dashwood. 

“ Then I must carry you, must I?” cried Dashwood, 
laughing; and immediately, to Mr. Montague’s amaze- 
ment, a romping scene ensued between this tutor and 
governess, which ended in Dashwood’s carrying Made- 
moiselle in his arms into the boat, amid the secret deri- 
sion of two footmen, and the undisguised laughter of 
black Tom, who were spectators of the scene. 

Mr. Montague trembled at the thoughts of receiving 
a wife from the hands of a Mile. Panache ; but, turning 


140 


MORAL TALES. 


Ins eye upon Lady Augusta, he thought she blushed, and 
this blush at once saved her in his opinion, and increas- 
ed his indignation against her governess. Mademois- 
elle being now alarmed, and provoked by the laughter 
of the servants, the dry sarcastic manner of Lord George, 
the cool air of Mr Montague, and the downcast looks of 
her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high, 
angry tone assured him that she had never seen no- 
body have so much assurance and she demanded fu- 
riously, ‘Glow he could -ever link to take such liberties 
wid her? Only tell me how you could dare to tink 
of it r* 

“ I confess I did not Ihmk as I ought to have done. 
Mademoiselle,” replied Dashwood, looking an apology 
to Lady Augusta, Avhich however, he took great care 
Mademoiselle should not observe. “ But your bet, my 
lord, if you please,” added he, attempting to turn it off 
in a joke ; “ there was no scream — my bet’s fairly 
won.” 

“I assure you, sir, dis won’t do; it’s no good joke, 
I promise you — Ma chere amie, moti cceur,’^ cried Made- 
moiselle to Lady Augusta: “ Vicns — come, let us go. 
Don’t touch that,” pursued she, roughly to black Tom, 
who was going to draw away the plank that led to the 
shore. “ 1 will go home dis minute, and speak to mi- 
ladi S . Viens ! viens ma there amie /” — and she dart- 

ed out of the boat, while Dashwood followed, in vain 
attempting to slop her. She prudently, however, took 
the longest way through the park, that she might have 
a full opportunity of listening to reason, as Dashwood 
called it ; and before she reached home, she was per- 
fectly convinced of the expediency of moderate mea- 
sures. ‘‘ Let the thing rest where it is,” said DasLwood ; 
“ it’s a joke, and there’s an end of it ; but if you take it 
in earnest, you know the story might not tell so well, 
even if you told it, and there would never be an end of 
it.’’ All this, followed by a profusion of compliments, 
ratified a peace, which the moment he had made, he 
laughed at himself for having taken so much trouble to 
effect : while Mademoiselle rested in tlie blessed persua- 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


141 


sion that Dash wood was desperately in love with her ; 
nay, so little knowledge had she of the human heart as 
to believe that the scene which had just passed was a 
proof of his passion. 

wonder where’s Miladi Augusta? I tought she 
was wid me all dis time, said she. 

“She’s coming; don’t you see her at the end of the 
grove with Mr. Montague ? We have walked fast.” 

“ O, she can’t never walk so fast as me ; I tink I am 
as young as she is.” 

Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon 
the consequences of the attachment which he saw rising 
in Mr. Montague’s mind for Lady Augusta. If a man 
of sense were to gain an influence over her, Dashwood 
feared that all his hopes would be destroyed,. and he re- 
solved to use all his power over Mademoiselle to preju- 
dice her, and by her means to prejudice her pupil against 
this gentleman. Mademoiselle’s having begun by taking 
him for an apofMcaire was a circumstance much in fa- 
vour of Dashwood’s views, because she felt herself 
pledged to justify, or at least to persist in her opinion, 
that he did not look like un liomme comme il faut. 

In the mean lime, Mr. Montague was walking slow- 
ly towards them with Lady Augusta, who found it ne- 
cessary to walk as slowly as possible because of the 
heat. He had been reflecting very soberly upon her 
ladyship’s late blush, which, according to his interpreta- 
tion, said, as plainly as a blush could say, all that the 
most refined sense and delicacy could dictate. Yet such 
is, upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the human 
mind, that he by no means felt sure that the lady had 
blushed at all. Her colour was, perhaps, a shade higher 
than usual ; but then it was hot weather, and she had 
been walking. The doubt, however, Mr. Montague 
thought proper to suppress ; and the reality of the blush 
once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed 
the foundation of several ingenious theories of moral 
sentiment, and some truly logical deductions. A pas- 
sionate admirer of grace and beauty, he could not help 
wishing that’ he might find Lady Augusta’s temper and 

20 * 


142 


MORAL TALES. 


understanding equal to her personal accomplishnnents. 
When we are very anxious to discover perfections in 
any character^ we generally succeed. Mr. Montague 
quickly discovered many amiable and interesting quali- 
ties in this fair lady ; and, though he perceived some 
defects, he excused them to himself with the most phi- 
losophic ingenuity. 

“ Affectation,’’ the judicious Locke observes, has 
always the laudable aim of pleasing upon this prin- 
ciple Mr. Montague could not reasonably think of it 
with severity. From the desire of pleasing,” argued 
he, proceeds not only all that is amiable, but much of 
what is mo'st estimable in the female sex. This desire 
leads to affectation and coquetry ; to folly and vice, only 
when it is.extended to unworthy objects. The moment 
a woman’s wish to please becomes discriminative, the 
moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to 
the vulgar herd, she not only ceases to be a coquette, 
but she exerts herself to excel in every thing that he 
approves, and, from her versatility of manners she has 
the happy power of adapting herself to his taste, and of 
becoming all that his most sanguine wishes could de- 
sire.” The proofs ol this discriminative taste, and the 
first symptoms of this salutary attachment to a man su- 
perior to the common herd, Mr. Montague thought he 
discerned very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he 
ever forget that she was but eighteen. She is so very 
young,” said he to himself, “ that it is but reasonable I 
should constantly consider what she may become, rather 
than what she is.” To do him justice we shall observe, 
that her ladyship, at this time, with all the address of 
which so young a lady was capable, did every thing in 
her power to confirm Mr. Montague in his favourable 
sentiments of her. 

Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he 
was at length determined by the generous enthusiasm, 
amiable simplicity, and candid good sense which Lady 
Augusta showed in speaking of a favourite friend of hers, 
of whom he could not approve. This friend, Lady Di- 
ana, was one of the rude ladies who had laughed with 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


145 


SO much ill nature at Helen’s white and black shoes, at 
the archery-ball. She was a dashing, rich, extravagant, 
fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike man- 
ners, too often “ touching the brink of all we hate,” 
without exciting any passions allied to love. Her look 
was almost an oath — her language was suitable to her 
looks — she swore and dressed to the height of the fa- 
shion — she could drive four horses in hand — was a des- 
perate huntress — and so loud in the praises of her dogs 
and horses, that she intimidated even sportsmen and 
jockeys. She talked so much of her favourite horse 
Spanker, that she acquired among a particular set of 
gentlemen the appellation of my Lady Di Spanker. — 
Lady Augusta perceived that the soft affectations re- 
markable in her own manners were in agreeable con- 
trast in the company of this masculine dame ; she there- 
fore cultivated her acquaintance, and Lady S could 

make no objection to a woman who was well received 
everywhere ; she was rather flattered to see her daugh- 
ter taken notice of by this dashing belle; consequently. 
Lady Di Spanker, for by that name we also shall call 
her, frequently rode over from Cheltenham, which was 

some miles distant from S Hall. One morning she 

called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon her com- 
ing out to try her favourite horse. All ihe gentlemen 
went down immediately to assist in putting her lady- 
ship on horseback; this was quite unnecessary, for La- 
dy Diana took that office upon herself. Lady Augusta 
was all timidity, and was played off to great advantage 
by the rough raillery of her friend. At length she con- 
quered her fears so much as to seat herself upon the 
side-saddle ; her riding-mistress gathered up the reins for 
her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands; then 
armed her with her whip, exhorting her, for God’s 
sake not to be such a coward !” Scarcely was the word 
coward pronounced when Lady Augusta, by some un- 
guarded motion of her whip, gave offence to her high- 
mettled steed, which instantly began to rear ; there was 
no danger, for Mr. Montague caught hold of the reins, 
and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect safety. 


144 


MORAL TALES. 


How now, Spanker !” exclaimed Lady Di, in a voice 
calculated to strike terror into the nerves of a horse — 

Plow now. Spanker!’^ and mounting him with mas- 
culine boldness and gesture — I’ll teach you, sir, who’s 
your mistress,” continued she ; Pll make you pay for 
these tricks!” Spanker reared again, and Lady Di 
gave him what she called “a complete dressing!” In 
vain Lady Augusta screamed: in vain the spectators 
/ entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip ,• she per- 
sisted in beating Spanker till she fairly mastered him. 
When he was perfectly subdued, she dismounted with 
the same carelessness with which she had mounted; 
and, giving the horse to her groom, pushed back her hat, 
and looked round for applause. Lord George, roused 
to a degree of admiration which he had never before 
been heard to express for any thing female, swore that, 
in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done ; 
and Lady Di Spanker received his congratulations with 
a loud laugh, and a hearty shake of the hand. “ Walk 
him about, Jack,” added she, turning to the groom, who 
held her horse; walk him about, for he’s all in a la- 
ther; and when he’s cool, bring him up here again. 
And then, my dear child,” said she to Lady Augusta, 
“ you shall give him a fair trial.” 

I! — O! never, never!” cried Lady Augusta, shrink- 
ing back with a faint shriek : “ this is a trial to which 
you must not put my friendship. I must insist upon 
leaving Spanker to your management; I would not 
venture upon him again for the universe.” 

“ How can you talk so Jike a child — so like a wo- 
man ?” cried her friend. 

‘G confess, I am a very woman,” said Lady Augus- 
ta, with a sigh; “'and I fear I shall never be other- 
wise.” 

Fear!” repeated Mr. Montague, to whom even the 
affectation of feminine softness and timidity appeared 
at this instant charming, from the contrast with the 
masculine intrepidity and disgusting coarseness of Lady 
Diana Spanker’s manners. The tone in which he pro- 
nounced the single word fear was sufficient to betray 

t 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


14.5 


his feelings towards both the ladies. Lady Di gave him 
a look of sovereign contempt. All 1 know and can tell 
you,’’ cried she, is, “ that /ear should never get a-horse- 
back.” Lord George burst into one of his loud laughs. 
‘‘But as to the rest, /ear may be a confounded good 
thing in its proper place ; but they say it’s catching ; so 
I must run away from you, child,” said she to Lady Au- 
gusta. “Jack, bring up Spanker. I’ve twenty miles 
to ride before dinner. I’ve no time to lose,” pulling out 
her watch: “faith, I’ve fooled away an hour here; 
Spanker must make it up for me. God bless you all! 
good-by!” and she mounted her horse, and galloped 
off full speed. .God bless ye ! good-by to ye. Lady Di 
Spanker,” cried Dashwood, the moment she was out 
of hearing. — “Heaven preserve us from amazons!” 
Lord George did not say jlmen. On the contrary, he 
declared she was a fine dashing woman, and seemed to 
have a great deal of blood about her. Mr. Montague 
watched Lady Augusta’s countenance in silence, and 
was much pleased to observe that she did not assent to 
his lordship’s encomiums. “She has good sense enough 
to perceive the faults of her friend, and now her eyes 
are open she will no longer make a favourite companion, 
I hope, of this odious woman,” thought he. “ I am 
afraid, I am sadly afraid you are right,” said Lady Au- 
gusta, going up to the elderly lady whom we for- 
merly mentioned, who had seen all that had passed from 
the open windows of the drawing-room. “ I own I do 
see something of what you told me the other day you 
disliked so much in my friend Lady Di and Lady 
Augusta gave the candid sigh of expiring friendship as 
she uttered these words. 

Do you know,” cried Dashwood, “ that this spank- 
ing horsewoman has frightened us all out of our senses? 
I vow to Heaven, I never was so much terrified in my 
life as when I saw you. Lady Augusta, upon that vi- 
cious animal.” 

“ To be sure,” said Lady Augusta, “ it was very silly 
of me to venture; 1 almost broke my neck, out of pure 
friendship y 

N 


146 


MORAL TALES. 


“ It is well it is no worse,” said the elderly lady : 
a fall from a horse was the worst evil to be expected 
from a friendship with a woman of this sort, it would 
be nothing very terrible.” 

Lady Augusta, with an appearance of ingenuous can- 
dour, sighed again, and replied, It is so difficult to see 
any imperfections in those one loves ! Forgive me, if I 
spoke with too much warmth, madam, the other day, 
in vindication of my friend. I own I ought to have 
paid more deference to your judgment and knowledge 
of the world, so much superior to my own; but cer- 
tainly I must confess, the impropriety of her amazonian 
manners, as Mr. Dashwood calls them, never struck my 
partial eyes till this morning. Nor could I, nor would 
I, believe half the world said of her; indeed, even now, 
1 am persuaded she is, in the main quite irreproachable; 
but I feel the truth of what you said to me, madam, that 
young women cannot be too careful in the choice of 
their female friends ; that we are judged of by our com- 
panions ; how unfairly one must be judged of some- 
times!” concluded her ladyship, with a look of pensive 
reflection. 

Mr. Montague never thought her half so beautiful 
as at this instant. “ How mind embellishes beauty I” 
thought he; ‘‘ and what quality of the mind more amia- 
ble than candour! — All that was wanting to her cha- 
racter was reflection ; and could one expect so much 
reflection as this from a girl of eighteen, who had been 
educated by a Mile. Panache?” Our readers will ob- 
serve that this gentleman now reasoned like a madman, 
but not like a fool; his deductions from the appearances 
before him were admirable ; but these appearances were 
false. He had not observed that Lady Augusta’s eyes 
were open to the defects of her amazonian friend, in 

the very moment that Lord George was roused to 

admiration by this horseman-belle. Mr. Montague 
did not perceive that the candid reflections addressed to 
his lordship’s aunt were the immediate consequence of 
female jealousy. 

The next morniiig, at breakfast. Lord George was 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


147 


summoned three times before he made his appearance; 
at length he burst in, with a piece of news he had just 
heard from his groom — ‘‘that Lady Di Spanker, in 
riding home full gallop the preceding day, had been 
thrown from her horse by an old woman. Faith, I 
couldn’t believe the thing,” added Lord George, with a 
loud laugh; “ for she certainly sits a horse better than 
any woman in England ; but my groom had the whole 
story from the granddaughter of the old woman who 
was run over.” 

“Run over!” exclaimed Lady Augusta, “was the 
poor woman run over? — was she hurt?” 

“Hurt! yes, she was hurt, I fancy,” said Lord 
George “ I never heard of anybody’s being run over 
without being hurt. The girl has a petition, that will 
come up to us just now, I suppose. I saw her in the 
back yard as 1 came in.” 

“ O ! let us see the poor child,” said Lady Augusta ; 
^‘do let us have her called to this window.” The 
window opened down to the ground, and, as soon as 
the little girl appeared with the petition in her hand. 
Lady Augusta threw open the sash, and received it from 
her timid hand with a smile, which to Mr. Montague 
seemed expressive of sweet and graceful benevolence. 
Lady Augusta read the petition with much feeling, and 
her lover thought her voice never before sounded so 
melodious. She wrote her name eagerly at the head of 
a subscription. The money she gave was rather more 
than the occasion required; but, thought Mr. Mon- 
tague, 

“ If the generous spirit flow 
Beyond where prudence fears to go, 

Those errors are of nobler kind, 

Than virtues of a narrow mind.”* 

By a series of petty artifices Lady Augusta contrivetf 
to make herself appear most engaging and amiable to 
this artless young man : but the moment of success was 
to her the moment of danger. She was little aware that 
when a man of sense began to think seriously of her as 


* Soame Jenyns. 


148 


MORAL TALES. 


a wife, he would require very different qualities from 
those which please in public assemblies. Her ladyship 
fell into a mistake not uncommon in her sex; she 
thought that ‘‘Love blinds when once he wounds the 
swain.”* Coquettes have sometimes penetration suf- 
ficient to see what will please their different admirers : 
but even those who have that versatility of manners 
which can be all things to all men, forget that it is pos- 
sible to support an assumed character only for a time; 
the moment the immediate motive for dissimulation di- 
minishes, the power of habit acts, and the- real disposi- 
tions and manners appear. 

When Lady Augusta thought herself sure of her cap- 
live, and consequently when the power of habit was be- 
ginning to act with all its wonted force, she was walk- 
ing out with him in a shrubbery near the house, and 
Mademoiselle, with Mr. Dashwood, who generally was 
the gallant partner of her walks, accompanied them. 
Mademoiselle stooped to gather some fine carnations ; 
near the carnations was a rose-tree. Mr. Montague, 
as three of those roses, one of them in full blow, one 
half-blown, and another a pretty bud, caught his eye, 
recollected a passage in Berkeley’s romance of Gauden- 
tio di Lucca.f “ Did you ever happen to meet with 
Gaudentio di Lucca 1 do you recollect the story of Be- 
rilla. Lady Augusta?” said he. 

“ No ; I have never heard of Berilla : what is the 
story ?” said she. 

“I wish I had the book,” said Mr. Montague; “I 
cannot do it justice, but T will, borrow it for you from 
Miss Helen Temple. I lent it to her some lime ago ; I 
dare say she has finished reading it.” 

At these words, Lady Augusta’s desire to have Gau- 
dentio di Lucca suddenly increased; and she expressed 
vast curiosity to know the story of Berilla. “ And 
pray what put you in mind of this book just new?” 
said she. 

“ These roses. In Berkeley’s Utopia, which he calls 


♦ Collin’s Eclogues. 


t Gaudentio di Lucca, p. 202. 


MADEBIOISELLE PANACHE. 


149 


Mc2.zorania — (every philosopher, you know, Mr. Dash- 
wood, must have a Utopia, under whatever name he 
pleases to call it) — in Mezzorania, Lady Augusta, gen- 
tlemen did not, as among us, make declarations of love 
by artificial words, but by natural flowers. The lover 
in the beginning of his attachment declared it to his mis- 
tress by the offer of an opening bud ; if she felt favour- 
ably inclined towards him, she accepted, and wore the 
bud. When time had increased his affection — for in 
Mezzorania it is supposed that time increases affection 
for those that deserve it — the lover presented a half- 
blown flower; and after this also was graciously ac- 
cepted, he came, we may suppose not long afterward, 
with a full-blown flower, the emblem of mature affection. 
The ladies who accepted these full-blown flowers, and 
wore them, were looked upon among the simple Mezzo- 
ranians as engaged for life ; nor did the gentlemen, 
when they offered their flowers, make one single pro- 
testation or vow of eternal love, yet they were believed, 
and deserved, it is said, to be believed.’^ 

Qu’est ce que c'est? qu’est ce que c^est?'’ repeated 
Mademoiselle several times to Dashwood, while Mr. 
Montague was speaking: she did not understand Eng- 
lish sufliciently to comprehend him, and Dashwood was 
obliged to make the thing intelligible to her in French. 
While he was occupied with her, Mr. Montague 
gathered three roses, a bud, a half-blown, and a full- 
blown rose, and playfully presented them to Lady 
Augusta for her choice. “ Pm dying to see this Gau- 
dentio di Lucca; you’ll get the book for me to-morrow 
from Miss Helen Temple, will you?” said Lady 
Augusta, as she with a coquettish smile took the rose- 
bud and put it into her bosom. 

cried Mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the 
full-blown rose, which Mr. Montague threw away 
carelessly: bon! but it is great pity dis should be 

thrown aA^y.” , 

“ It is not throv/n away upon Mile. Panache!” said 
Dashwood. 

“ Dat may be,” said Mademoiselle; ‘‘ but I observe, 

n2 ■ 27 


150 


MORAL TALES. 


wid all your fine compliment, you let me stoop to pick 
it up for myself — d I’Angloise 

“Ala Franqoise, then,” said Dash wood, laughing, 
'^permit me to put it into your nosegay.” 

“ Dat is more dan you deserve,” replied Mademoi- 
selle. — “Eh! nan, non. I can accommodate it, I tell 
you, to my own taste best.” She settled and resettled 
the flower ; but suddenly she stopped, uttered a piercing 
shriek, plucked the full-blown rose from her bosom, and 
threw it upon the ground with a theatrical look of hor- 
ror. A black earwig now appeared creeping out of the 
rose ; he was running away, but Mademoiselle pur- 
sued, set her foot upon him, and crushed him to death. 
“ O ! I hope to Heaven, Mr. Montague, there are ndne 
of these vile creatures in the bud you’ve given me!” 
exclaimed Lady Augusta. She looked at her bud as 
she spoke, and espied upon one of the leaves a small 
green caterpillar; with a look scarcely less theatrical 
than Mademoiselle’s, she tore off the leaf and flung it 
from her; then, from habitual imitation of her gover- 
ness, she set her foot upon the harmless caterpillar, and 
crushed it in a moment. 

In the same moment Lady Augusta’s whole person 
seemed metamorphosed to the eyes of her lover. She 
ceased to be beautiful : he seemed to see her counte- 
nance distorted by malevolence; he saw in her gestures 
disgusting cruelty; and all the graces vanished. 

When Lady Augusta was a girl of twelve years old, 
she saw Mile. Panache crush a spider to death without 
emotion; the lesson on humanity was not lost upon 
her. From imitation she learned her governess’ foolish 
terror of insects ; and from example she was also taught 
that species of cruelty by which at eighteen she dis- 
gusted a man of humanity who was in love with her. 
Mr. Montague said not one word upon the occasion. 
They walked on. A few minutes after the caterpillar 
had been crushed. Lady Augusta exclaimed, "‘Why, 
Mademoiselle, what have you done with Fanfan 7 I 
thought my dog was with us ; for Heaven’s sake, where 
is he?” 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


151 


I 


“ He is run, he is run on,” replied Mademoiselle. 

“ O, lie’ll be lost! he’ll run down the avenue, quite 
out upon the turnpike-road. Fanfan ! Fanfan!” 

“ Don’t alarm, don’t distress yourself,” cried Dash- 
wood ; “if your ladyship will permit me. I’ll seek for 
Fanfan instantly, and bring her back to you, if she is to 
be found in the universe.” 

“O Lord I don’t trouble yourself; I only spoke to 
Mademoiselle, who regularly loses Fanfan when she 
takes him out with her.” Dashwood set out in search 
of the dog; and Lady Augusta, overcome with affecta- 
tion, professed herself unable to walk one yard further, 
and sank down upon a seat under a tree, in a very grace- 
ful, languid attitude. Mr. Montague stood silent be- 
side her. Mademoiselle v/ent on with a voluble defence 
of her conduct towards Fanfan, which lasted till Dash- 
wood reappeared, hurrying towards them with the dog 
in his arms — “ la voild! chere Fanfan!” exclaimed 

Mademoiselle. 

“ I am sure I really am excessively obliged to Mr. 
Dashwood, I must say,” cried Lady Augusta, lookipg 
reproachfully at Mr. Montague. 

Dashwood now approached with panting, breathless 
eagerness, announcing a terrible misfortune, that Fanfan 
had got a thorn or something in his fore-foot. Lady 
Augusta received Fanfan upon her lap, with expressions 
of the most tender condolence; and Dashwood knelt 
down at her feet to sympathize in her sorrow, and to 
examine the dog’s paw. Mademoiselle produced a 
needle to extract the thorn. 

“ I wish we had a magnifying glass,” said Dashwood, 
looking with strained solicitude at the wound. 

“ O, you insensible monster! positively you sha’n’t 
touch Fanfan,” cried Lady Augusta, guarding her lap- 
dog from Mr. Montague, who stoopped now, for the 
first time, to see what was the matter. “ Don’t touch 
him, I say ; I would not trust him to you for the uni- 
verse ; I know you hate lapdogs. You’ll kill him— • 
you’ll kill him.” 




152 


MORAL TALES. 


I kill him! O no,” said Mr. Montague j “ 1 woula 
not even kill a caterpillar.” 

Lady Augusta coloured at these words; but she re- 
covered herself when Dashwood laughed, and asked Mr. 
Montague how long it was since he had turned brah- 
min, and how long since he had professed to like cater- 
pillars and earwigs. 

“Bon Dieu! — earwig!” interrupted Mademoiselle: 
“ is it possible that Monsieur or anybody dat has sense, 
can like dose earwig ?” 

I do not remember,” answered Mr. Montague, 
calmly, “ ever to have professed any liking for earwigs.” 

“ Well, pity ; you profess pity for them,” said Mr. 
Dashwood, “ and pity, you know, is ‘ akin to love.^ 
Pray, did your ladyship ever hear of the man who had 
a pet load '?”* 

‘‘ O, the odious wretch!” cried Lady Augusta, af- 
fectedly ; ‘‘ but how could the man bring himself to like 
a toad?” 

“He began hy pitying him, I suppose,” said Dash- 
wood. “ For my part, 1 own I must consider that man 
to be in a most enviable situation whose heart is suffi- 
ciently at ease to sympathize with the insect creation.” 

“ Or with the brute creation,” said Mr. Montague, 
smiling and looking at Fanfan, whose paw Dashwood 
was at this instant nursing with infinite tenderness. 

“ O, gentlemen, let us have no more of this, for 
Heaven’s sake!” said Lady Augusta, interposing with 
affected anxiety, as if she imagined a quarrel would 
ensue. “Poor dear Fanfan, you would not have any- 
body quarrel about you, would you, Fanfan?” She 
rose as she spoke, and, delivering the dog to Dashwood 
to be carried home, she walked towards the house with 
an air of marked displeasure towards Mr. Montague. 

Her ladyship’s displeasure did not affect him as she 
expected. Her image — her gesture stamping upon the 
caterpillar, recurred to her lover’s mind many times in 
the course of the evening; and in the silence of the 


♦ Vide Smellie’s Natural History, vol. ii. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 153 

night, and whenever the idea of her came into his mind, 
it was attended with this picture of active cruelty. 

‘‘Has your ladyship,’’ said Mr. Montague, ad- 
dressing himself to Lady S , “ any commands for 

Mrs. Temple? I am going to ride over to see her this 
morning.” 

Lady S said that she would trouble him with a 

card for Mrs. Temple; a card of invitation for the en- 
suing week. “ And pray don’t forget my kindest re- 
membrances,” cried Lady Augusta, “ especially to 
Miss Helen Temple; and if she should have entirely 
finished the book we were talking of, I shall be glad 
*0 see it.” 

When Mr. Montague arrived at Mrs. Temple’s, he 
was shown into the usual sitting-room : the servants 
told him that none of the ladies were at home, but that 
they would soon return^ he believed, from their walk, 
as they were gone only to a cottage at about half a 
mile’s distance. 

The room in which he had passed so many agreeable 
hours awakened in his mind a number of dormant asso- 
ciations— work, books, drawing, writing! he saw every 
thing had been going forward just as usual in his ab- 
sence. All the domestic occupations, thought he, which 
make home delightful, are here : I see nothing of these 

at S Hall. Upon the table, near a neat work- 

basket, which he knew to be Helen’s, lay an open book; 
it was Gaudentio di Lucca. Mr. Montague recollected 
the bud he had given to Lady Augusta, and he began 
to whistle, but not for want of thought. A music-book 
on the desk of the piano-forte caught* his eye; it was 
open at a favourite lesson of his, which he remembered 
to have heard Helen play the last evening he was in 
her company. Helen was no great proficient in music ; 
but she played agreeably enough to please her friends, 
and she was not ambitious of exhibiting he? accom- 
plishments. Lady Augusta, on the contrary, seemed 
never to consider her accomplishments as occupations, 
but as the means of attracting admiration. To inter- 
rupt the comparison which Mr. Montague was begin- 

27 * 


154 


MORAL TALES. 


ning to enter into between her ladyship and Helen, he 
thought the best thing he could do was to Avalk to meet 
Mrs. Temple ; wisely considering that putting the body 
in motion sometimes stops the current of the mind. He 
had at least observed that his schoolfellow. Lord 

George , seemed to find this a specific against 

thought; and for once he was willing to imitate his 
lordship’s example, and to hurry about from place to 
place, without being in a hurry. He rang the bell, in- 
quired in haste which way the ladies were gone, and 
walked after them, like a man who had the business of 
the nation upon his hands ; yet he slackened his pace 
when he came near the cottage where he knew he was 
to meet Mrs. Temple and her daughters. When he 
entered the cottage the first object that he saw was 
Helen, sitting by the side of a decrepit old woman, who 
was resting her head upon a crutch, and who seemed 
to be in pain. This was the poor woman who had been 
ridden over by Lady Di Spanker. A farmer who lived 
near Mrs. Temple, and who was coming homewards at 
the time the accident happened, had the humanity to 
carry the wretched woman to this cottage, which was 
occupied by one of Mrs. Temple’s tenants. As soon as 
the news reached her, she sent for a surgeon, and went 
with her daughters to give that species of consolation 
which the rich and happy can so well bestow upon the 
poor and miserable — the consolation not of gold, but of 
sympathy. 

There was no affeJUtation, no ostentation of sensibi- 
lity, Mr. Montague observed, in this cottage scene; 
the ease and simplicity of Helen’s manner never ap- 
peared to him more amiable. He recollected Lady Au- 
gusta’s picturesque attitude, when she was speaking to 
this old woman’s granddaughter ; but there was some- 
thing in what he now beheld that gave him more the 
idea of nature and reality : he henrd, he saw, that much 
had actually been done to relieve distress, and done when 
there were no spectators to applaud or admire. Slight 
circumstances show whether the mind be intent, upon 
self or not. An awkward servant-girl brushed by Helen 


MADEMOISELLE TANACHE. 


155 


while she was speaking to the old woman, and with a 
great black kettle, which she was going to set upon the 
tire, blackened Helen’s w^hite dress, in a manner which 
no lady intent upon her personal appearance could have 
borne with patience. Mr. Montague saw the black 
streaks before Helen perceived them, and when the 
maid was reproved for her carelessness, Helen’s good- 
natured smile assured her “ that there was no great 
harm done.” 

'When they returned home, Mr. Montague found that 
Helen conversed with him with all her own ingenuous 
freedom, but there was something more of softness and 
dignity, and less of sprighlliness than formerly, in her 
manner. Even this happened to be agreeable to him, 
for it was in contrast with the constant appearance of 
effort and artificial brilliancy conspicuous in the manners 
of Lady Augusta. The constant round of cards and 

company, the noise and bustle at S Hall, made it 

more like town than country life, and he had often ob- 
served that in the intervals between dressing, and visit- 
ing, and gallantry, his fair mistress was frequently sub- 
ject to ennui. He recollected that in the many domestic 
hours he had spent at Mrs. Temple’s he had never be- 
held this French demon, who makes the votaries of dis- 
sipation and idleness his victims. What advantage has 
a man, in judging of female character, who can see a 
woman in the midst of her own family, “ who can read 
her history” in the eyes of those who know her most 
intimately, \yho can see her conduct as a daughter and 
a sister, and in the most important relations of life can 
form a certain judgment from what she has been, of what 
she is likely to be! But how can a man judge of what 
sort of wife he may probably expect in a lady, whom 
he meets with only at public places, or whom he never 
sees, even at her own house, without all the advantages 
or disadvantages of stage decoration! A man who 
marries a showy entertaining coquette, and expects she 
will make liim a charming companion for life, commits 
as absurd a blunder as that of the fiimous nobleman 
who, delighted with the wit and humour of Punch at a 


156 


MORAL- TALES. 


puppet-show, bought Punch, and ordered him to he 
sent home for his private amusement. 

Whether all or any of these reflections occurred to 
Mr. Montague during his morning visit at Mrs. Tem- 
ple’s, we cannot pretend to sayj but his silence and 
absence seemed to show that his thoughts were busily 
engaged. Never did Helen appear to him so amiable 
as she did this morning, when the dignity, delicacy, and 
simplicity of her manners were contrasted in his imagi- 
nation with the caprice and coquetry of his new mis- 
tress. He felt a secret idea that he was beloved, and a 
sober certainty that Helen had a heart capable of sincere 
and permanent affection, joined to a cultivated under- 
standing and reasonable principles, which would wear 
through life, and ensure happiness, with power supe- 
rior to the magic of passion. 

It was with some difficulty that he asked Helen for 
Gnudentio di Lucca, and with yet greater difficulty that 

lie took leave of her. As he was riding towards S 

Hall, “ revolving in his altered mind the various turns 
of fate below,” he was suddenly roused from his medi- 
tations by the site of a phaeton overturned in the middle 
of the road, another phaeton and four empty, and a group 
of people gathered near a bank by the road-side. Mr. 
Montague rode up as fast as possible to the scene of 
action ; the overturned phaeton Avas Lord Geqrge’s, the 
other Lady Di Spanker’s ; the group of people was com- 
posed of several servants. Lord George, Lady Di, and 
Mademoiselle, all surrounding a fainting fair one, who 
Avas no other than Lady Augusta herself Lord George 
Avas shaking his own arms, legs, and head, to make him- 
self sure of their safety. Lady Di eagerly told the whole 
story to Mr. Montague, that Lord George had been 
running races Avith her, and by his confounded bad 
driving had overturned himself and Lady Augusta. 
“Poor thing, she’s not hurt at all, luckily ; but she’s 
terrified to death, as usual, and she has been going from 
one fainting fit to another.” 

“ Bon Dieu!^^ interrupted Mademoiselle ; “ but what 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. ]57 

■will Miladi S say to us? I wish Miladi Augusta 

would come to her senses/’ 

Lady Augusta opened her beautiful eyes, and, just 
came sufficiently to her senses to observe who was' 
looking 'at her ^ she put aside Mademoiselle’s smelling- 
bottle, and in a soft voice begged to have her own salts. 
Mademoiselle felt in one of her ladyship’s pockets for 
the salts in vain; Lady Di plunged her hand into her 
other pocket, and pulled out, in the first place a book, 
which she threw upon the bank, and then came out the 
salts. In due time the lady was happily restored to the 
full use of her senses, and was put into her mother’s 
coach, which had been sent for to convey her home. 
The carriages drove away, and Mr. Montague was just 
mounting his horse, when he saw the book which had 
been pulled out of Lady Augusta’s pocket, and which, 
by mistake, was left where it had been thrown upon the 
grass. What was his astonishment when, upon open- 
ing it, he saw one of the very worst books in the French 
language; a book which never could have been found 
in the possession of any woman of delicacy — of de- 
cency. Her lover stood for some minutes in silent 
amazement, disgust, and we may add, terror. 

These feelings had by no means subsided in his mind 

when, upon his entering the drawing-room at S 

Hall, he was accosted by Mile. Panache, who, with no 
small degree of alarm in her countenance, inquired 
whether he knew any thing of the book which had been 
left upon the road. No one was in the room but the 
governess and her pupil. Mr. Montague produced the 
book, and Lady Augusta received it with a deep blush. 

Put a good face upon the matter at least,” whispered 
her governess in French. 

I can assure you,” said her ladyship, I don’t 
know what’s in this book; I never opened it; I got it 
this morning at the circulating library in Cheltenham; 
I put it in my pocket in a hurry — pray what is it?” 

If you have never opened it,” said Mr. Montague, 
laying his hand upon the book, “I may hope that you 
never will — but this is the second volume.” 


o 


158 


MORAL TALES. 


Maybe so,” said Lady Augusta ; I suppose in my 
hurry I mistook — ” 

“ She never had the first I can promise you,” cried 
Mademoiselle. 

“Never,” said Lady Augusta. The assertions had 
not the power to convince : they were pronounced with 
much vehemence, but not with the simplicity of truth. 
Mr. Montague was determined to have the point cleared 
up ; and he immediately oflered to ride back to Chelten- 
ham and return the second volume. At this proposal 
Lady Augusta, who foresaw that her falsehood would 
be detected, turned pale; but Mademoiselle, with a 
laugh of efirontery, which she thought was putting a 
good face upon the matter, exclaimed. • 

“ Eh ! listen to me — you may spare yourself de 
trouble of your ride,.” said she, “ for the truth is, I have 
de first volume. Mon Dieu! I have not committed 
murder— ;do not look so shock — what signify what I 
read at my age?” 

“But Lady Augusta, your pupil!” said Mr. Mon- 
tague. 

“I tell you she has never read one word of it; and * 
after all, is she child now? When she was, Miladi 

S was very particular, and I of consequence and 

of course, in de choice of her book; but now, oder af- 
faire, she is at liberty, and my maxim is — Tout est sain 
aux sains.^' 

Mr. Montague’s indignation was now strongly raised 
against this odious governess, and he looked upon her 
pupil Avith an eye of compassion. “So early, so 
young, tainted by the pernicious maxims of a worthless 
woman!” 

“ Eh, done, what signify your silence and your salts?” 
cried Modemoiselle, turning to her. 

“If I could be spared this scene at present,” said 
Lady Augusta, faintly — “ I really am not Avell. We 
had better talk over this business some other time, Mr. 
Montague:” to this he acceded, and the lady gained 
more by her salts and silence than her governess did by 
her garrulous effrontery. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


159 


When she talked over the business with Mr. Monta^ 
gue, she threw all the blame upon Mademoiselle, and 
she appeared extremely shocked and alarmed at the idea 
that she had lessened herself by her folly, as she called 
it, in the esteem of a man of superior sense and taste. 
It was perhaps possible that at this moment of her life 
her character might have taken a new turn; that she 
might really have been awakened to higher views and 
nobler sentiments than any she had ever yet known : 
but the baleful influence of her constant attendant and 
conductress prevailed against her heller self. Mademoi- 
selle continually represented to her, that she did not 
know or exert the whole of her power over Mr. Mon- 
tague: and she excited her to caprice and coquetry. 
The fate of trifling characters is generally decided by 
trifles : we must beg leave to relate the important his 
tory of a turban. 

Mile. Panache, who piqued herself much upon her 
skill as a milliner, made up a certain turban for Lady 
Augusta, which Dashwood admired extremely, but 
which Mr. Montague had the misfortune not to think 
perfectly beautiful. Vexed that he should dare to differ 
from her in taste. Lady Augusta could not rest with- 
out endeavouring to make him give up his opinion : he 
thought that it was not worth while to dispute about a 
trifle ; and though he could not absolutely say that it 
was pretty, he condescended so far as to allow that it 
might perhaps be pretty, if it,were put on differently. 

“ This is the way I always wear it — everybody wears 
it so — and I shall not alter it,” said Lady Augusta, who 
was quite out of temper. 

Mr. Montague looked grave : the want of temper was 
an evil which he dreaded beyond measure in a compa- 
nion for life. Smiles and dimples usually adorned Lady 
Augusta^s face; but these were artificial smiles: now 
passions, which one would scarcely imagine such a trifle 
could excite, darkened her brow, and entirely altered the 
air of her whole person, so as to make it absolutely dis- 
agreeable to her admirer. Lord George, who was stand- 
ing by, and who felt delighted with such scenes, winked 


160 


MORAL TALES. 


at Dashwood, and, with more energy than he usually ex- 
pressed upon any subject, now pronounced that, in his 
humble opinion, the turban was quite the thing, and could 
not be better put on. Lady Augusta turned a triumphant, 
insulting eye upon Mr. Montague : he was silent — his 
silence she took as a token of submission — in fact, it 
was an expression of contempt. The next day, at din- 
ner, her ladyship appeared in the same turban, put on 
sedulously in the same manner. Lord George seated 
himself beside her ; and as she observed that he paid her 
unusual attention, she fancied that at length his icy heart 
would thaw. Always more intent upon making cages,* 
Lady Augusta bent her mind upon captivating a new 
admirer. Mr. Montague, she saw, was displeased, but 
she now really felt and showed herself indifferent to his 
opinion. How variable, how wretched is the life of a* 
coquette ! The next day Lord George’s heart froze 
again as hard as ever, and Lady Augusta lightened upon 
the impassive ice in vain. She was mortified beyond 
measure, for her grand object was conquest. That she 
might triumph over poor Helen, she had taken pains to 
attract Mr. Montague. Dashwood, though far beneath 
her ladyship in fortune and in station, she deemed worth 
winning, as a man of wit and gallantry. Lord George, 
to be sure, had little wit, and less gallantry ; but he was 
Lord George, and that was saying enough. In short. 
Lady Augusta exacted tribute to her vanity without any 
discrimination, and she valued her treasures by number, 
and not by weight. A man of sense is mortified to see 
himself confounded with the stupid and the worthless. 

Mr. Montague, after having loved like a madman, felt 
it not in the least incumbent upon him to love like a fool ; 
he had imprudently declared himself an admirer of Lady 
Augusta, but he now resolved never to unite himself to 
her without some more reasonable prospect of happiness. 
Every day some petty cause of disagreement arose be- 
tween them, while Mademoiselle, by her silly and im- 
pertinent interference, made matters worse. Mademoi- 


* Swift. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


.16]. 


selle had early expressed her strong abhorrence of 
prudes; her pupil seemed to have caught the same ab- 
horrence ; she saw that Mr. Montague was alarmed by 
her spirit of coquetry, yet still it continued in full force. 
For instance, she would continually go out with Lord 
George in his phaeton, though she declared every time 
he handed her in, “that she was certain he would break 
her neck.” She would receive verses from Dashwood, 
and keep them embalmed in her pocket-book, though she 
allowed that she thought them “sad stuff.” 

However, in these verses, something more was meant 
than met the ear. He began with addressing a poem to 
her ladyship, called “ The Turban,” which her silly mo- 
ther extolled with eagerness, and seemed to think by no 
means inferior to the “ Rape of the Lock.” Lady Au- 
gusta wrote a few lines in answer to the “Turban” — re- 
ply produced reply — nonsense, nonsense — till Dashwood 
now and then forgot his poetical character. Lady Au- 
gusta forgave it ; he, of course, forgot himself again into 
a lover in prose. For some time the sonnets were 

shown to Lady S , but at length some were received 

which it was thought as well not to show to anybody. In 
short, between fancy, flattery, poetry, passion, jest, and 
earnest. Lady Augusta was drawn on till she hardly 
knew where she was; but Dashwood knew perfectly 
well where he was, and resolved to keep his ground 
resolutely. 

When encouraged by the lady’s coquetry, he first 
formed his plans, he imagined that, a promise of a wed- 
ding-present would easily secure her governess : but 
this was a slight mistake ; avarice happened not to be 
the ruling, or, at least at this time, the reigning passion 
of Mademoiselle’s mind; and quickly perceiving his 
error, he paid assiduous court to her vanity. She firmly 
believed that she had captivated him, and was totally blind 
to his real designs. The grand difficulty with Dashwood 
was, not to persuade her of his passion, but to prevent 
her from believing him too soon ; and he thought it ex- 
pedient to delay completing his conquest of the governess 
tifl he had gained an equally powerful influence over her 

o 2 28 


162 


3I0RAL TALES. 


pupil. One evening, Dash wood, passing through a shel- 
tered walk, heard Lady Augusta and Mr. Montague 
talking very loudly and eagerly : they passed through 
the grove so quickly that he could catch only the words 
“ phaeton — imprudence.^’ 

‘‘ Pshaw ! jealousy — nonsense.” 

'•^Reasonable woman for a wife.” 

" Pooh, no such thing.” 

“ My unalterable resolution” were the concluding words 
of Mr. Montague, in a calm but decided voice ; and, 
" As you please, sir ! Pve no notion of giving up my will 
in every thing,” the concluding words of Lady Augusta, 
pronounced in a pettish tone, as she broke from him j 
yet pausing for a moment, Dashwood, to his great sur- 
prise and concern, heard her in a softer tone add a hut, 
which showed she was not quite willing to break from 
Mr. Montague ibr ever. Dashwood was alarmed be- 
yond measure; but the lady did not long continue in this 
frame of mind, for, upon going into her dressing-room 
to rest herself, she found her governess at the glass. 

“ Bon Dieu /” exclaimed Mademoiselle, turning t'ound : 
" miladi told me you was gone out — mais qu^est ce que 
c^est f vousvoild pale — you are as white — hlanc commemon 
linge,^’ cried she, with emphasis, at the same time touch- 
ing a handkerchief which was so far from white that her 
pupil could not help bursting out into a laugh at the un- 
fortunate illustration. “ Pauvre petit ! tenez,'” continued 
Mademoiselle, running up to her^vith salts, apprehensive 
that she was going into fits. 

"I am not ill, thank you,” said Lady Augusta, taking 
the smelling-bottle. 

" But don’t tell me dat,” said Mademoiselle ; “ I saw 
you walking out of de window wid dat man, and I know 
dis is some new demeU wid him. Come, point de secret, 
mon enfant. Has not he been giving you one good lec- 
ture?” 

Lecture!” said Lady Augusta, rising with becoming 
spirit: "no. Mademoiselle, i am not to be lectured by 
anybody.” 

"No, to be sjre; dat is what I say, and, surtout, not 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


163 


by a lover. Quel liomme ! why I would not have him to 
pay his court to me for all de world. Why, pauvre pe- 
tite, he has made you look ten years older ever since he 
began to fall in love wid you. Dis what you call a lover 
in England ? Bon, why, I know noting of de matter, if 
he be one bit in love wid you, mon enfant^ 

0,as to that, he certainly is in love with me : what- 
ever other faults he has, I must'do him that justice.” 

Justice! O, let him have justice, de tout mon cceur ; 
but I say, if he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in 
love I ever happen to see; he eat, drink, sleep, talk, 
laugh, sepossede tout comme un autre. Bon Dieu ! I would 
not give noting at all myself for such a sort of a lover. 
Mon enfant, dis is not de way I would wish to see you 
loved ; dis is not de way no man ought for to dare for 
to love you.” 

And how ought I to be loved ?” asked Lady Augusta, 
impatiently. 

La helle question ! Eh ! don’t every body, de stupid- 
est person in de world, know how dey ought to be 
love? Mais passiojinement, eperdument — dere is a — a 
je ne sais quoi dat infalliblement distinguish de true lover 
from de false.” 

Then,” said Lady Augusta, “ you really don’t think 
that Mr. Montague loves me?” 

^^Tink!” replied Mademoiselle, ‘‘I don’t tink about 
it ; but have not I said enough ? Open your eyes ; make 
your own comparaisotis.'” 

Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a 
knock at the door from her maid came to let her know 
that Lord George was waiting. 

Ah, Milord George ! I Avon’tkeep you den : va-t-en.^^ 

‘^But now, do you know, it was only because 1 just 
said that I was going out with Lord George that Mr. 
Montague made all this rout.” 

Den let him make his rout; quHmporte? Miladi 
votre chere mere make no objections. Quelle impertinence! 
If he was milord due he could not give himself no more 
airs. Fa, mon enfant ; dis a lover ! Quel homme, qud 
tyran! and den, of course, when he grows to be a hufi- 


164 


MORAL TALES. 


band, he will be worserer and worserer, and badderer 
and badderer, when he grows to be your husband. 

cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves 
hastily, my husband he shall never be, I am determined. 
So now I’ll give him his coup de grace 

Bonl'' said Mademoiselle, following her pupil, and 
I must not miss to be by, for I shall love to see dat man 
mortify.” 

“You are going then?” said Mr. Montague, gravely, 
as she passed. 

“ Going, going, going, gone!” cried Lady Augusta, 
who tripping carelessly by, gave her hand to the sulky 
lord ; then springing into the phaeton, said, as usual, I 
know, my lord, you’ll break my neck ;” at the same time 
casting a look at Mr. Montague, which seemed to say, 

I hope you’ll break xjour heart, at least.” 

When she returned from her airing, the first glance at 
Mr. Montague’s countenance, convinced her that her 
power was at an end. IShe was not the only person who 
observed this. Dashwood, under his air of thoughtless 
gayety, watched all that passed with the utmost vigi- 
lance, and he knew how to avail himself of every cir- 
cumstance that could be turned to his own advantage. 
He well knew that a lady’s ear is never so happily pre- 
pared for the voice of flattery as after having been forced 
to hear th?rt of sincerity. Dashwood contrived to meet 
Lady Augusta just after she had been mortified by her 
late admirer’s total recovery of his liberty, and seizing 
well his moment, pressed his suit with gallant ardour. 
As he exhibited all those signs of passion which her 
governess would have deemed unequivocal, the young 
lady thought herself justified in not absolutely driving 
him to despair. 

Where was Lady S all this time? Where? — at 

the card-table, playing very judiciously at whist. With 
an indolent security, which will be thought incredible by 
those who have not seen similar instances of folly in 
great families, she let every thing pass before her eyes 
without seeing it. Confident that her daughter, after 
having gone through the usual routine, would meet with. 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


16 - 


some suitable establishment, that the settlements would 
then be the father’s business, the choice of the jewels 
hers, she left her dear Augusta, in the mean time, to 
conduct herself; or, what was ten times worse, to be 
conducted by Mile, Panache. Thus to the habitual in- 
dolence or temporary convenience of parents are the 
peace and reputation of a family secretly sacrificed. 
And we may observe, that those who take the least pre- 
caution to prevent imprudence in their children are 
most enraged and implacable when the evil becomes 
irremediable. 

In losing Mr. Mountague’s heart. Lady Augusta’s 
vanity felt a double pang from the apprehension that 
Helen would probably recover her captive. Acting 
merely from the impulse of the moment, her ladyship was 
perfectly a child in her conduct; she seldom knew her 
own mind two hours together, and really did not foresee 
the consequences of any one of her actions. Half a 
dozen incompatible wishes filled her heart, or, rather, her 
imagination. The most immediate object of vanity had 
always the greatest power over her; and upon this habit 
of mind Dashwood calculated with security. 

In the pride of conquest, her ladyship had rejoic^l at 
her mother’s inviting Mrs. Temple and her daughters to 
an entertainment at S Hall, where she flattered her- 

self that Mr. Montague would appear as her declared 
admirer. The day, alas! came; but things had taken a 
new turn, and Lady Augusta was as impatient that the 
visit should be finished as she had been eager to have the 

invitation sent. Lady S was not precisely informed 

of all that was going on in her own house, as we have 
observed ; and she was therefore a little surprised at the 
look of vexation with which her daughter heard that she 
had pressed Mrs. Temple to stay all night My dear,” 
said Lady S , you know you can sleep in Made- 

moiselle’s room for this one night, and Miss Helen Tem- 
ple will have yours. One should be civil to people, 
especially when one sees them but seldom.” Lady Au- 
gusta was much out of humour with her mother’s ill- 

28 '^ 


166 


MORAL TALES. 


timed civility; but there was no remedy. In the hurry 
of moving berthings at night, Lady Augusta, left in her 
dressing-table drawer a letter of DashAvood’s — a letter 
which she would not have had seen by Miss Helen Tem- 
ple for any consideration. Our readers may imagine what 
her ladyship’s consternation must have been,Avhen, the 
next morning, Helen put the letter into her hand, saying 
“ There’s a paper you left in your dressing-table, Lady 
Augusta.” The ingenuous countenance of Helen, as 
she spoke, might have convinced any one but Lady 
Augusta that she was incapable of having opened this 
paper; but her ladyship judged otherwise; she had no 
doubt that every syllable of the letter had been seen, and 
that her secret would quickly be divulged. The company 
had not yet assembled at breakfast. She retired precipi- 
tately to her own room, to consider Avhat could possibly 
be done in this emergency. She at length resolved to 
apply to Mr. Montague for assistance; she had seen 
enough of him to feel assured that he was a man of 
honour, and that she might safely trust him. When 
she heard him go down stairs to breakfast she followed, 
and. contrived to ^ive him a note, which he read with 
no small degree ot surprise. 

*^How to apologise for myself I know not, nor have I 
one moment’s time to deliberate. Believe me, I feel my 
sensibility and delicacy severely Avounded ; but an ill- 
fated, uncontrollable passion must plead my excuse. I 
candidly oAvn that my conduct must appear to you in a 
strange light ; but spare me, I beseech you, all reproaches 
and pardon my weakness, for on your generosity and 
honour must I rely in this moment of distress. 

“ A letter of mine — a filal letter from DasiiAvood — has 
fallen into the hands of Miss Helen Temple. All that I 
hold most dear is at her mercy. I am fully persuaded 
that, Avere she to promise to keep my secret, nothing on 
earth would tempt her to betray me; but I know she has 
so much the habit of speaking of every thing to her 
mother, that I am in torture till this'promise is obtained. 
Your influence I must depend upon. Speak to her, I 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


167 


conjure you, the moment breakfast is over; and assure 
yourself of my unalterable gratitude. 

Augusta — — 

The moment breakfast was over, Mr. Montague fol- 
lowed Helen into the library; a portfolio full of prints 
lay open on the table, and as he turned them over, he 
stopped at a print of Alexander putting his seal to the 
lips of Hephacstion, whom he detected reading a letter 
over his shoulder. Helen, as he looked at the print, said 
she admired the delicacy of Alexander’s reproof to his 
friend ; but observed, that it was scarcely probable the 
seal should bind Hephsestion’s lips. 

How so?” said Mr. Montague, eagerly. 

“ Because,” said Helen, “ if hoaour could not restrain 
his curiosity, it would hardly secure his secrecy.” 

Charrning girl ! ” exclaimed Mr. Montague, with en- 
thusiasm. Helen, struck with surprise and a variety of 
emotions, coloured deeply. “I beg your pardon,” said 
Mr. Montague, changing his tone, ‘‘for being so abrupt. 
You found a letter of Lady Augusta’s last night. She is 
is in great, I am sure, needless, anxiety about it.” 

“Needless, indeed; I did not think it necessary to 
assure Lady Augusta, when 1 returned her letter, that I 
had not read it. I gave it to her, because I thought she 
would not like to have an open letter left where it might 
fall into the hands of servants. As she has mentioned 
this subject to you, I hope, sir, you will persuade her 
of the truth; you seem to be fully convinced of it your- 
self.” 

“I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of 
the generosity, the simplicity of your mind. May I ask 
whether you formed any conjecture, whether you know 
whom that letter was from?” 

Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied, “Yes, sir, I 
did form a conjecture — I thought it was from you.” 

“From me!” exclaimed Mr. Montague. “I must 
undeceive you there: the letter was not mine. I am 
eager,” continued he, smiling, “to undeceive you. I 
wish I might flatter myself this explanation could ever 


168 


MORAL TALES. 


be half as interesting to you as it is to me. That letter 
was not mine, and I can never, in future, be on any 
other terms with Lady Augusta than those of a common 
acquaintance.” 

Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance 
of Mademoiselle followed by Dashwood, to whom she 
was talking with great earnestness. Mr. Montague, 
when he had collected his thoughts sufficiently to think 
of Lady Augusta, wrote the following answer to her 
letter : — 

Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect 
to your note. Miss Helen Temple has not read it, nor 
has she, I am convinced, the slightest suspicion of its 
contents, or its author. I beg leave to assure your lady- 
ship that I am sensible of the honour of your confidence, 
and that you shall never have any reason to repent of 
having trusted in my discretion. Yet permit me, even 
at the hazard of appearing impeftinent, at the still greater 
hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my 
most earnest hope, that nothing will tempt you to form 
a connexion which, I am persuaded, would prove fatal 
to the happiness of your future life. I am, with much 
respect, 

“ Your ladyship’s obedient servant, 

“F. Montague.” 

Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the 
greatest eagerness: the first time she ran her eye over 
it, joy, to find her secret yet undiscovered, suspended 
every other feeling ; but upon a second perusal, her lady- 
ship felt extremely displeased by the cold civility of the 
style, and somewhat alarmed at the concluding para- 
graph. With no esteem and little affection for Dash- 
^vood, she had suffered herself to imagine that her pas- 
sion for him was uncontrollable. 

What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a 
man destitute equally of fortune and principle, she had 
never attempted to calculate; but there was something 
awful in the words, “ I earnestly hope that nothing wifi 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


169 


tempt you to form a connexion which \yould prove fatal 
to your future happiness.” While she was pondering 
upon these words, Dashwood met her in the park, 
where she was walking alone. “ Why so grave?” ex- 
claimed he, with anxiety. 

“I am only thinking — that — I am afraid — I think this 
is a silly business : I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn’t 
think any more of it, and give me back my letters.” 

Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were 
dearer to him than life, and that the “ last pang should 
tear them from his heart.” 

‘‘ But, if we go on with all this,” resumed Lady Au- 
gusta, “it will at least break my mother’s heart, and 
Mademoiselle’s into the bargain besides, I don’t half 
believe you ; I really — ” 

“ I really what?” cried he, pouring forth protestations 
of passion, which put Mr. Montague’s letter entirely out 
of her head. 

A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind 
in the most important actions of our lives ; and faults 
are often attributed to passion which arise from folly. 
The pleasure of duping her governess, the fear of wit- 
nessing Helen’s triumph over her lover’s recovered 
affections, and the idea of the bustle and eclat of an elope- 
ment, all mixed together, went under the general deno- 
mination of love ! — Cupid is often blamed for deeds in 
which he has no share. 

“ But,” resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last 
pause of expiring prudence, “what shall we do about 
Mademoiselle?” 

“ Poor Mademoselle !” cried Dashwood, leaning back 
against a tree to support himself, while he laughed vio- 
lently, “ what do you think she is about at this instant ? 
— packing up her clothes in a bandbox.” 

“ Packing up her clothes in a bandbox !” 

Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with im- 
patience to carry her off to Scotland, and at four o’clock 
to-morrow morning she trips down stairs out of the 
garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across 
(he park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes 

p 


170 


MORAL TALES. 


refuge with her good friend. Miss Lacey, the milliner, 
where she is to wait for me. ^ Now, in the mean time, 
the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my real 
angel.’’ 

“O, no, upon my word,’’ said Lady Augusta, so 
faintly, that Dashwood went on exactly in the same 
tone. 

I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on 
our trip to Scotland before Mademoiselle’s patience is 

half exhausted, and before Miladi S is quite 

awake.” 

Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling aMhis idea; 
and thus, by an unlucky stroke of humour, was the 
grand event of her life decided. 

Marmontel’s well-known story, called Heureusement, 
is certainly not a moral tale: to counteract its effects, 
he should have w^ritten Malhcureusement , if he could. 

Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady 
Augusta and Dashwood. 

The next morning Lady S came down, according 

to her usual custom, late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, 
Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Montague, &c. were 
assembled. “ Has not Mademoiselle made breakfast for 
us yet?” said Lady S . She sat down, and expect- 

ed every moment to see Mile. Panache and herdaughter 
make their appearance; but she waited in vain. Nei- 
ther Mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood were 
anywhere to be found. Everybody round the breakfast- 
table looked at each other in silence, waiting the event. 

“They are out walking, I suppose,” said Lady S ; 

which supposition contented her for the first five mi- 
nutes; but then she exclaimed, “ it’s very strange they 
don’t come back!” 

“ Very strange — I mean rather strange,” said Lord 
George, helping himself, as he spoke, to liis usual quan- 
tity of butter, and then drumming upon the table ; while 
Mr. Montague, all the time, looked down, and preserved 
a profound silence. 

At length the door opened, and Mile. Panache, in a 
riding-habit, made her appearance. “iJon jour, miladi! 


MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 


171 


Bon jour !” said she, looking round at the silent party, 
with a half-terrified, half-astonished countenance. — “ Je 
vous demande mille pardons — Qu’est ce que c^esl ? I have 
only been to take a walk dis morning into de village to 
de milliner’s. She has disappointed me of my tings, 
dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in time for 
breakfast 1 hope ?” 

‘‘But where is my daughter 1” cried Lady S , 

roused at last from her natural indolence — “ Where is 
Lady Augusta?” 

“Bon Dieul Miladi, I don’t know. BonDieu! in 
her bed, I suppose. Bon Dieu ! exclaimed she a third 
time, and turned as pale as ashes. “ But where den is 
Mr. Dashwood?” At this instant a note, directed to 
Mademoiselle, was brought into the room : the servant 
said that Lady Augusta’s maid had just found it upon 
her lady’s toilette — Mademoiselle tore open the note. 

“Excuse me to my mother — you can best plead 'my 
excuse. 

“ You will not see me again till I am 

Augusta Dashwood.” 

AhsceUrat! ^dli sceUrat. 11 m’a traliiP^ screamed 
Mademoiselle : she threw down the note, and sank upon 

the sofa in real hysterics ; while Lady S , seeing in 

one and the same moment her own folly and her daugh- 
ter’s ruin, fixed her eyes upon the words “ Augusta 
Dashwood,” and fainted. Mr. Montague led Lord 
George out of the room with him, while Mrs. Temple, 
Helen, and her sister ran to the assistance of the un- 
happy mother and the detected governess. 

As soon as Mademoiselle had recovered tolerable 
composure, she recollected that she had betrayed too vio- 
*lent emotion on this occasion. II nda trahi,^^ were 
words, however, that she could not recall; it was in 
vain she attempted to fabricate some apology for her- 
self. No apology could avail : and while Lady S , 

in silent anguish, wept for her own and her daughter’s 
folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms, abused 


172 


MORAL TALES. 


Dashwood, and reproached her pupil with having shown 
duplicity, ingratitude, and a had heart. 

“A bad educatiorf!” exclaimed Lady S , with a 

voice of mingled anger and sorrow. Leave the room, , 
Mademoiselle; leave my house. How could I choose 
such a governess for my daughter? Yet, indeed,” 
added her ladyship, turning to Mrs. Temple, “ she was 
well recommended to me, and how could I foresee all 
this?” 

To such an appeal at such a time there was no reply 
to be made:, it is cruel to point out errors to those who 
feel that they are irreparable ; but it is benevolent to 
point them out to others, who have yet their choice to 
make. 


ANGELINA; 


OE, 

L’AMIE INCONNUE. 


29 


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ANGELINA; 


OR, 

L’AMIE INCONNUE. 


CHAPTER I. 

But, my dear lady Di, indeed you should not let this 
affair prey so continually upon your spirits,” said Miss 
Burrage, rh the condoling tone of an humble companion : 
— you really have almost fretted yourself into a ner- 
vous fever. I was in hopes that change of air, and 
change of scene, would have done every thing for*you, 
or I never would have consented to your leaving Lon- 
don ; for you know your ladyship’s always better in 
London than anywhere else. And Pm sure your lady- 
ship has thought and talked of nothing but this sad affair 
since you came to Clifton.” 

confess,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, I de- 
serve the reproaches of my friends for giving way to my 
sensibility, as I do, upon this occasion : but I own I can- 
not help it. Oh, what will the world say ! what will 
the world say! — The world will lay all the blame upon 
me; yet Pm sure Pm the last, the very last person that 
ought to be blamed.” 

“^Assuredly,” replied Miss Burrage, nobody can 
blame your ladyship ; and nobody will, I am persuaded. 
The blame will all be thrown, where it ought to be, upon 
the young lady herself.” 

If I could but be convinced of that!” said her lady- 
ship in a tone of great feeling ; “ such a young creature, 
scarcely sixteen, to. take such a step ! — I am sure I wish 
to heaven her father had never made me her guardian. 
I confess, I was most exceedingly imprudent, out of re- 
gard to her family, to take under my protection such a 


6 ! * MORAL TALES. 

self-willed, unaccountable, romantic girl. Indeed, my 
dear,” continued Lady Diana Chillingworth, turning to 
her sister. Lady Frances Somerset, it was you that 
misled me. You remember you used to tell me that 
Anne Warwick had such great abilities !” 

“ That I thought it a pity they had not been well di- 
rected,” said Lady Frances. 

And such generosity of temper, and such warm af- 
fections!” said Lady Di. 

“ That I regretted their not having been properly cul- 
tivated.” 

“ I confess. Miss Warwick was never a great favourite 
of mine,” said Miss Burragej “but now that she has 
lost her best friend” — 

“She is likely to find a great number of enemies,” 
said Lady Frances. 

“ She has been her own enemy, poor girl! I am sure 
I pity her,” replied Miss Burrage ; “ but, at the same 
time^ I must say, that ever since she came to my Lady 
Di Chillingworth’s, she has had good advice enough.” 

“ Too much, perhaps ; which is worse than too little,” 
thought Lady Frances. 

“ Advice!” repeated Lady Di Chillingworth ; why, 
as to that, my conscience, I own, acquits me there ; for, 
to be sure, no young person of her age, or of any age, 
had ever more advice, or more good advice, than Miss 
Warwick had from me ; I thought it my duty to advise 
her, and advise her I did from morning till night, as Miss 
Burrage very well knows, and will do me the justice, I 
hope, to say in all companies.” 

“ That I shall certainly make it a principle to do,” said 
Miss Burrage. “ I am sure it would surprise and grieve 
you. Lady Frances, to hear the sort of foolish, imprudent 
things that Miss Warwick, with all her abilities, used to 
say. I recollect’, — 

“Very possibly,” replied Lady Frances; “but why 
should we trouble ourselves to recollect all the foolish 
imprudent things which this poor girl may have said? — 
This unfortunate elopement is a sufficient proof of hei 
folly and imprudence. With whom did she go off?” 

“ With nohoflv : there’s the wnnder ” 


ANGELINA. 


7 


With nobody ! — Incredible ! — She had certainly some 
admirer, some lover, and she was afraid, I suppose, to 
mention the business to you. 

No such thing, my dear : there is no love at all in 
the case : indeed, for my part, I cannot in the least com- 
prehend Miss Warwick, nor ever could. She used, 
every now and then, to begin and talk to me some non- 
sense about her hatred of the forms of the world, and 
her love of liberty, and I know not what; and then she 
had some female correspondent, to whom she used to 
write folio sheets, twice a week, I believe ; but I never 
could see any of these letters. Indeed, in town, you 
know, I could not possibly have leisure for such things; 
but Miss Burrage, 1 fancy, has one of the letters, if you 
have any curiosity to see it. Miss Burrage can tell you 
a great deal more of the whole business than I can ; for 
you know, in London, engaged as I always was, with 
scarcely a moment ever to myself, how could I attend to 
all Anne Warwick’s oddities'? I protest I know nothing 
of the matter, but that one morning Miss Warwick was 
nowhere to be found, and my maid brought me a letter, 
of one word of which I could not make sense : the letter 
was found on the young lady’s dressing-table, according 
to the usual custom of eloping heroines. Miss Burrage, 
do show Lady Frances the letters — you have them 
somewhere; and tell my sister all you know of the mat- 
ter, for I declare I’m quite tired of it ; besides, I shall be 
wanted at the card-table.” 

Lady Diana Chillingworth went to calm her sensibility 
at the card-table : and Lady Frances turned to Miss Bur- 
rage for further information. 

All I know,” said Miss Burrage, is, that one night 1 
saw Miss Warwick putting a lock of frightful hair into a 
locket, and I asked her whose it was. — ‘ My amiable 
Araminta’s,’ said Miss Warwick. — ‘Is she pretty?’ said 
I. — ‘ I have never seen her,’ said Miss Warwick ; ‘ hut 1 
will show you a charming picture of her mind!’ — and 
she put this long letter into my hand. I’ll leave it with 
your ladyship, if you please ; it is a good or rathei a bad 
nour’s work to read it.” 

“ Araminta!’^ exclaimed Lady Frances, looking at the 


8 


MORAL TALES. 


signature of the letter — “• this is only a nom de guerre, I 
suppose.” 

“ Heaven knows !” answered Miss Burrage ; but Miss 
Warwick always signed her epistles Angelina, and her 
unknown friend's were always signed Araminta. I do 
suspect that Araminta, whoever she is, was the instiga- 
tor of this elopement.” 

‘‘ I wish,” said Lady Frances, examining the postmark 
of the letter, “ I wish that we could find out where Ara- 
minta lives ; we might then, perhaps, recover this poor 
Miss Warwick, before the affair is talked of in the world 
— before her reputation is'lnjured.” 

It would certainly be a most desirable thing,” said 
Miss Burrage ; but Miss Warwick has such odd notions, 
that I question whether she will ever behave like other 
people; and, for my part, I cannot blame Lady Diana 
Chillingworth for giving her up. She is one of those 
young ladies whom it is scarcely possible to manage by 
common sense.” 

It is certainly true,” said Lady Frances, that young 
women of Miss Warwick’s superior abilities require 
something more than common sense to direct them pro- 
perly. Young ladies who think of nothing but dress, 
public amusements, and forming what they call high 
connexions, are undoubtedly most easily managed, by 
the fear of what the world will say of them ; but Miss 
Warwick appeared to me to have higher ideas of excel- 
lence; and I therefore regret that she should be totally 
given up by her friends.” 

‘^It is Miss Warwick who has given up her friends,” 
said Miss Burrage, with a mixture of embarrassment and 
sarcasm in her manner; ‘‘ it is Miss Warwick who has 
given up her friends; not Miss Warwick’s friends who 
have given up Miss Warwick.” 

The letter from the ‘^amiable Araminta,” which Miss 
Burrage left for the perusal of Lady Frances Somerset, 
contained three folio sheets, of which, it is hoped, the 
following abridgment will be sufficiently ample to satisfy 
the curiosity even of those who are lovers of long let- 
ters : — 

‘‘ Yes, my Angelina! our hearts are formed for that 


ANGELINA. 


9 


higher species of friendship of which common souls are 
inadequate to form an idea, however their fashionable 
puerile lips may, in the intellectual inanity of their con- 
versation, profane the term. Yes, my Angelina, you are 
right — every fibre of my frame, every energy of my in- 
tellect, tells me so. I read your letter by moonlight! — 
The air balmy and pure as my Angelina’s thoughts I — 
The river silently meandering I — The rocks! — The 
woods! — Nature in all her majesty. Sublime confi- 
dante! sympathizing with my supreme felicity. And 
shall I confess to you, friend of my soul! that I could 
not refuse myself the pleasure of reading to my Orlando 
some of those passages in your last which evince so 
powerfully the superiority of that understanding which, 
if I mistake not strangely, is formed to combat, in all its 
Proteus forms, the system of social slavery? With 
what soul-rending eloquence does my Angelina describe 
the solitariness, the isolation of the heart she experiences 
in a crowded metropolis! With what emphatic energy 
of inborn independence does she exclaim against t^e 
family phalanx of her aristocratic persecutors! — Surely 
— surely she will not be intimidated from the settled 
purpose of her soul’ by the phantom-fear of worldly 
censure! — The garnish-tinselled wand of fashion has 
waved in vain in the illuminated halls of folly-painted 
pleasure ; my Angelina’s eyes have withstood — yes, with- 
out a blink — the dazzling enchantment. And will she 
— no, I cannot — I will not think so for an instant — will 
she now submit her understanding, spell-bound, to the 
soporific charm of nonsensical words, uttered in an awful 
tone by that potent enchantress Prejudice? The decla- 
mation, the remonstrances of self-elected judges of right 
and wrong should be treated with deserved contempt by 
superior minds, who claim the privilege of thinking and 
acting for themselves. The words ward and guardian 
appal my Angelina! but what are legal technical for- 
malities, what are human institutions, to the view of 
shackle-scorning Reason? — Oppressed, degraded, en- 
slaved, — must our unfortunate sex for ever submit to 
sacrifice their rights, their pleasures, their will, at the 
altar of public opinion j while the shouts of interested 


10 


MORAL TALES. 


priests and idle spectators raise the senseless enthu- 
siasm of the 'self-devoted victim, or drown her cries in 
the truth-extorting moment of agonizing nature ! You 
will not perfectly understand, perhaps, to what these 
last exclamations of your Araminia allude : — but, chosen 
friend of my heart! — when we meet — and O let that be 
quickly! — my cottage longs for the arrival of my unso- 
phisticated Angelina! — when we meet you shall know 
all — your Araminta, too, has had her sorrows. — Enough 
of this! — But her Orlando has a heart, pure as the in- 
fantine god of love could, in his most perfect mood, de- 
light at once to wound, and own — joined to an under- 
standing — shall I say it? — worthy to judge of your Ara- 
minta’s. A nd will not my sober-minded Angelina prefer, 
to all that palaces can afford, such society in a cottage? 
— I shall reserve for my next the description of a cot- 
tage, which I have in my eye, within view of ; but 

I will not anticipate, — Adieu, my amiable Angelina. — I 
enclose, as you desire, a lock of my hair. — Ever, un- 
alterably, your affectionate, though almost heart-broken, 

Araminta. 

April, 1800 . — Angelina Bower ! 

“ So let me christen my cottage!’^ 

What effect this letter may have on sober-minded read- 
ers in general can easily be guessed ; but Miss Warwick, 
who was little deserving of this epithet, was so charmed 
with the sound of it, that it made her totally to forget to 
judge of her amiable Araminta’s mode of reasoning — 
“ Garnish-tinselled wands” — “ shackle-scorning Rea- 
son” — isolation of the heart” — ‘‘ soul-rending elo- 
quence” — with “ rocks and -woods, and a meandering 
river — balmy air — moonlight — Orlando — energy of in- 
tellect — a cottage — and a heart broken friend,” made, 
when all mixed together, strange confusion in Angelina’s 
imagination. She neglected to observe that her Ara- 
minta was, in the course of two pages, almost heart- 
broken” — and in the possession of ‘‘supreme felicity.” 
Yet Miss Warwick, though she judged so like a simple- 
ton, was a young woman of considerable abilities : her 
want of what the world calls common sense arose from 


ANGELINA.. 


11 


certain mistakes in her edncation. She had passed her 
childhood with a father and mother who cultivated her 
literary taste, but who neglected to cultivate her judg- 
ment : her reading was conhned to works of imagination ; 
and the conversation which she heard was not calculated 
to give her any knowledge of realities. Her parents 
died when she was about fourteen, and she then went 
to reside with Lady Diana Chillingworth, a lady who 
placed her whole happiness in living in a certain circle 
of high company in London. Miss Warwick saw the 
follies of the society with which she was now mixed ; 
she felt insupportable ennui from the want of books and 
conversation suited to her taste she heard with impa- 
tience Lady Diana’s dogmatical advice j observed with 
disgust the meanness of her companion, Miss Burrage; 
and felt with triumph the superiority of her own abilities. 
It was in this situation of her mind, that Miss Warwick 
happened at a circulating library to meet with a new 
novel, called “ The Woman of Genius.” The character 
of Araminta the heroine, charmed her beyond measure ; 
and having been informed by the preface that the story 
was founded on facts in the life of the authoress herself, 
she longed to become acquainted with her, and addressed 
a letter to ‘‘ The Woman of Genius,” at her publisher’s. 
The letter was answered in a highly flattering, and con- 
sequently very agreeable style, and the correspondence 
continued for nearly two years; till at length Miss W. 
formed a strong desire to see her unknowa friend. The 
ridicule with which Miss Burrage treated every thing 
and every idea that was not sanctioned by fashion, and 
her total want of any taste for literature, were continually 
contrasted, in Miss Warwick’s mind, with the picture 
she had formed of her Araminta. Miss Burrage, who 
dreaded, though certainly without reason, that she might 
be supplanted in the good graces of Lady Diana, endea- 
voured by every petty means in her power, to disgust her 
young rival with the situation in which she was placed. 
She succeeded beyond her hopes. Miss Warwick deter- 
mined to accept her unknown friend'^ s invitation to Ange- 
lina Bower, — a charming romantic cottage in South 
Wales, where, according to Araminta’s description, she 


12 


MORAL TALES. 


might pass her halcyon days in tranquil, elegant retire- 
ment. It was not difficult for our heroine, though unused 
to deception, to conceal her project from Lady Diana 
Chillingworth, who was much more observant of the 
appearance of her protegee in public, than interested 
about what passed in her mind in private. Miss War- 
wick quitted her ladyship’s house without the least dif- 
ficulty ; and the following is the letter which our heroine 
left upon her dressing-table. Under all the emphatic 
words, according to the custom of some letter-writers, 
were drawn emphatic lines. 

Averse, as I am, to every thing that may have the 
appearance of a clandestine transaction, I have, however, 
found myself under the necessity of leaving your lady- 
ship’s house Avithout imparting to you my intentions. 
Confidence and sympathy go hand-in-hand, nor can either 
be commanded by the voice of authority. Your lady- 
ship’s opinions and mine, upon all subjects, differ so 
essentially, that I could never hope for your approbation, 
either of my sentiments or my conduct. It is my nnaU 
terable determination to a^ and think upon every occa- 
sion for myself; though I am Avell aware that they who 
start out of the common track, either in AvorJ or action, 
are exposed to the ridicule and persecution of vulgar or 
illiberal minds. They who venture to carry the first 
torch into unex'plored or unfrequented, passages in the 
mine of truth, are exposed to the most imminent danger. 
Rich, however, are the treasures of the place, and cow- 
ardly the soul that hesitates! But I forget myself. 

It may be necessary to inform your ladyship that, 
disgusted with the frivolity of what is called fashionable 
life, and unable to live Avithout the higher pleasures of 
friendship, I have chosen for my asylum the humble, 
tranquil cottage of a female friend, whose tastes, whose 
principles have long been known to me ; whose gcjiitts 
I admire! whose virtues I revere! whose example 1 
emulate ! 

^‘Though I do not condescend to use the fulsome lan- 
guage of a mean dependant, T am not forgetful of the 
kindness I have received from vour ladyship. It has not 


ANGELINA. 


13 


been without b. painful struggle that I have broken my 
bonds asunder — the bonds of what is falsely called duty : 
spontaneous gratitude ever will have full, indisputable, 
undisputed power over the heart and understanding of 
Anne-Angelina Warwick. 

S. It will be in vain to attempt to discover the 
place of my retreat. All I ask is to be left in peace, to 
enjoy in my lethement perfect felicity y 


CHAPTER 11. 

Full of her hopes of finding ‘^perfect felicity’^ m her 
retreat at Angelina Bower, exulting in the idea of the 
courage and magnanimity with which she had escaped 
from her aristocratic persecutors,” our heroine pursued 
her journey to South Wales. 

Slie had the misfortune, — and it is a great misfortune 
to a young lady of her way of thinking, — to meet with 
no difficulties or adventures — nothing interesting upon 
her journey. She arrived with inglorious safety at Car- 
diffe. The inn at Cardiffe was kept by a landlady of the 
name of Hoel. ‘^^Not high-born Hoel. Alas!” said 
Angelina to herself, when the name was screamed in 
her hearing by a waiter, as she walked into the inn. 

Vocal no more to high-born Hoel’s harp or soft Llewel- 
lynn’s lay!” A harper was sitting in the passage, and 
he tuned his harp to catch her attention as she passed. 
“A harp! — O, play for me some plaintive air!” The 
harper followed her into a small parlour. 

“How delightful!” said Miss Warwick, who, in 
common with other heroines, had the habit of talking to 
herself; or, to use more dignified terms, who had the 
habit of indulging in soliloquy ; “ how delightful to taste 
at last the air of Wales. But ’tis a pity ’lis not North 
instead of South Wales, and Conway instead of Cardiffe 
Castle.” 

The harper, after he had finished playing a melancholy 
air, exclaimed, “ That was but a melancholy ditty. Miss ; 
we'll try a merrier.” And he began, 

“Of a noble race was yhenkin." 

B 


14 


MORAL TALES 


mdre!” cried Angelina, stopping her ears; "no 
more, barbarous man! You break the illusion.’’ 

"Break the what?” said the harper to himself; "I 
thought. Miss, that tune would surely please you, for it 
is a favourite one in these parts.” 

'‘A favourite with Welsh squires, perhaps,” said our 
heroine; " but, unfortunately, I am not a Welsh squire, 
and have no taste for your ‘Bumper Squire Jones.’ ” 

The man tuned his harp sulleqly. " I’m sorry for it. 
Miss,” said he: "more’s the pity, I can’t please you 
better I” 

Angelina cast upon him a look of contempt. "He no 
way fills my idea of a bard! — an ancient and immortal 
bard! He has no soul — fingers without a soul! No 
‘ master’s hand,’ or ‘ prophet’s fire ! ’ No ‘ deep sorrows ! ’ 
No ‘sable garb of wo!’ No loose beard or hoary hair 
‘streaming like a meteor to the troubled air!’ ‘No 
haggard eyes!’ Heigho!” 

" It is time for me to be going,” said the harper, who 
began to think, by the young lady’s looks and manners, 
that she was not in her right understanding: " it is time 
for me to be going ; the gentleman above, in the Dolphin, 
will be ready for me.” 

"A mere modern harper! He is not even blind!” 
Angelina said to herself, as he examined the shilling 
which she gave him. ‘‘Begone, for Heaven’s sake!” 
added she, aloud, as he left the room; "and leave me, 
leave me to repose.” 

She threw up the sash to taste the evening air; but 
scarcely had she begun to repeat a sonnet to her Ara- 
minta — scarcely had she repeated the first two lines, 

“Hail, far-famed, fairest unknown friend, 

Our sacred silent sympathy of soul,” — 

when a little ragged Welsh boy, who was playing with 
his companions in a field at the back of Cardiffe inn, 
espied her, gave the signal to his playfellows, and imme- 
diately they all came running up to the window at which 
Angelina was standing, and with one loud shrill chorus 
of “ Gi’ me ha’penny ! Gi’ me ha’penny ! Gi’ me one 
ha’penny!” interrupted the sonnet. Angelina threw 
out some money to the boys, though she was provoked 


ANGELINA. 


15 


by their interruption : her donation was, in the true spirit 
of a heroine, much greater than the occasion required; 
and the consequence was, that these urchins, by spread- 
ing the fame of her generosity through the town of Car- 
diffe, collected a Lilliputian mob of petitioners, who 
assailed Angelina with fresh vehemence. Not a mo- 
ment’s peace, not a moment for poetry or revery would 
they allow her; so that she was impatient for her 
.chaise to come to the door. Her Araminta’s cottage was 
but six miles distant from Cardiffe; and, to speak in due 
sentimental language, every moment that delayed her 
long-expected interview with her beloved unknown friend 
appeared to her an age. 

‘‘And what would you be pleased to have for supper, 
ma’am ?” said the landlady. “ We have fine Tenby oys- 
ters, ma’am ; and if you’d like a Welsli rabbit — ” 

“ Tenby oysters! Welsh rabbits!” repeated Angelina, 
in a disdainful tone; “O, detain me not in this cruel 
manner! I want no Tenby oysters, I want no Welsh 
rabbits ; only let me be gone — I am all impatience to see 
a dear friend. O, if you have any feeling, any humanity, 
detain me not!” cried she, clasping her hands. 

Miss Warwick had an ungovernable propensity to make 
a display of sensibility ; a fine theatrical scene upon 
every occasion ; a propensity which she had acquired 
from novel-reading. It was never more unluckily dis- 
played than in the present instance; for her audience 
and spectators, consisting of the landlady, a waiter, and 
a Welsh boy who just entered the room with a knife-’ 
tray in his hand, were all more inclined to burst into 
rude laughter than to join in gentle sympathy. The 
chaise did not come to the door one moment sooner than 
it would have done without this pathetic wringing of 
the hands. As soon as Angelina drove from the door, 
the landlady’s curiosity broke forth — 

“Pray tell me, Hugh Humphries,” said Mrs. Hoel, 
turning to the postillion who drove Angelina from N< w- 
port — “ pray, now, does not this seem strange, that such 
a young lady as this should be travelling about in such 
wonderful haste? — I believe, by her flighty airs, she is 
upon no good errand — and I would have her to know, at 

30 


16 


MORAL TALES. 


any rate, that she might have done better than to sneei, 
in that way, at Mrs. Hoel of CardifTe, and her Tenby 
oysters, and her Welsh rabbit — O, Pll make her repent 
her jjehaviour to Mrs. Hoel of CardifTe. — Not high-born 
Hoel,’ forsooth ! — How does she know that, I should be 
glad to hear? — The Hoels are as high-born. I’ll venture 
to say, as my young Miss herself. I’ve a notion j and 
would scorn, moreover, to have a runaway lady for a 
relation of theirs. O, she shall learn to repent of her 
disrespects of Mrs. Hoel of CardifTe — I pelieve she shall 
soon meet herself in the public newspapers — her eyes, 
and her nose, and her hair, and her inches, and her de- 
scription at full length she shall see — and her friends 
shall see it too — and maybe they shall thank, and maybe 
they shall reward handsomely Mrs. Hoel of CardifTe.” 

While the angry Welsh lady was thus forming projects 
of revenge for the contempt with which she imagined 
that her high birth and her Tenby oysters had been treat- 
ed, Angelina pursued her journey towards the cottage of 
her unknown friend, forming charming pictures in her 
imagination, of the manner in which her amiable Ara- 
minta would start, and weep, and faint, perhaps, with 
joy and surprise, at the sight of her Angelina. It was a 
fine moonlightnight ; — an unlucky circumstance, for the 
by-road which led to Angelina Bower, was so narrow 
and bad, that if the night had been dark, our heroine 
must infallibly have been overturned, and this overturn 
would have been a delightful incident in the history of 
her journey ; but fate ordered it otherwise. Miss War- 
wick had nothing to lament, but that her delicious reve- 
ries were interrupted for several miles by the Welsh 
postillion’s expostulations with his horses. 

Good heavens!” exclaimed she, “cannot the man 
hold his tongue? — His uncouth vociferations distract 
me! — So fine a scene, so placid the moonlight — but 
there is always something that is not in perfect unison 
with one’s feelings.” 

“ Miss, if you please, you must light here, and walk 
for a matter of a quarter of a mile, for I can’t drive up 
to the house-door, because there is no carriage road 
the lane: but. if vou he pleased. I’ll go on be^-^rp 


ANGELINA. 


17 


you — my horses will stand quite quiet here — and Pil 
knock the folks up for you, Miss.^’ 

“ Folks ! — O don’t talk to me of knocking the folks 
up,” cried Angelina, springing out of the carriage : 
“ stay with your horses, man, I beseech you. You 
shall be summoned when you are wanted — 1 choose to 
walk up to the cottage alone.” 

“ As you please. Miss,” said the postillion ; only hur 
had better take care of the dogs.” 

This last piece of counsel was lost upon our heroine ; 
she heard it not — she was rapt into future times.” 

By moonlight will be our first interview — -just as I 
had pictured to myself — but can this be the cottage? — It 
does not look quite so romantic as I expected — but ’tis 
the dwelling of my Araminta — happy, thrice happy mo- 
ment! — Now for our secret signal — 1 am to sing the first, 
and my unknown friend the second part of the same air.” 

Angelina then began to sing the following stanza : — 

“ O waly waly up the bank, 

O waly waly down the brae, 

And waly waly yon burnside, 

Where I and iny love were wont to gae.” 

She sang, and paused in expectation of hearing the 
second part from her amiable Araminta — but no voice 
was heard. 

‘^All is hushed,” said Angelina — ‘‘ever tranquil be 
her slumbers! Yet I must waken her — her surprise 
and joy at seeing me thus will be so great ! — by moon- 
light too !” 

She knocked at the cottage window — still no answer. 

“ All silent as night !” said she — 

“‘When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 

And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene.’ ” 

Angelina, as she repeated these lines, stood with her 
back to the cottage window : the window opened, and a 
Welsh servant girl put out her head ; her night-cap, if 
cap it might .be called, which shape had none, was half 
off, her black hair streamed over her shoulders, and her 
face was the face of vulgar superstitious amazement. 

“Ob, ’tis our old ghost of Nelly Gwynn,all in white, 
walking and saying her prayers packwards — 1 heard ’em 

B ^ 


18 


3I0RAL TALES. 


quite plain, as I hope to preathe,’’ said the terrified girl 
to herself; and shutting the window with a trembling 
hand, she hastened to waken an old woman who slept 
in the same room with her. Angelina, whose patience 
was by this time exhausted, went to the door of the cot- 
tage, and shook it with all her force. It rattled loud, 
and a shrill scream was heard from within. 

‘‘ A scream cried Angelina; “ Oh, my Araminta! — 
all is hushed again.” Then raising her voice, she called 
as loudly as she could at the window, “ My Araminta! 
my unknown friend ! be not alarmed, ’tis your Angelina.” 

The door opened slowly and softly, and a slip-shod 
beldam peeped out, leaning upon a stick; the head of 
Betty Williams appeared over the shoulder of this sybil; 
Angelina was standing, in a pensive attitude, listening 
at the cottage windoAV ; at this instant the postillion, 
who was tired of waiting, came whistling up the lane; 
he carried a trunk on his back, and a bag in his hand. 
As soon as the old woman saw him, she held up her 
stick, exclaiming — 

*‘A man! a man! — a ropper and murterer! — Cot 
save us! and keep the door jfast polled.” They shut 
the door instantly. 

“What is all this?” said Angelina, with dignified 
composure. 

“ A couple of fools, I take it. Miss, who are afraid and 
in tred of roppers,” said the postillion; “put I’ll make 
/em come out. I’ll pe pound, plockheads.” So saying, 
he went to the door of Angelina Bower, and thundered 
and kicked at it, speaking all the time very volubly in 
Welsh. In about a quarter of an hour he made them 
"comprehend that Angelina was a young lady come to 
visit their mistress : then they came forth courtesying. 

“ My name’s Betty Williams,” said the girl, who was 
tying a clean cap under her chin. “ Welcome to Llan- 
waetur. Miss! — pe pleased to excuse our keeping hur 
waiting, and poking the toor, and taking hur for a ghost 
and a ropper — put we know who you are now — the 
young lady from London, that we were told to expect.” 

“ Oh, then.I have been expected? all’s right — and my 
Araminta, where is she? v,;V..-rp is «hp V'> 


ANGELINA. 


19 


‘^Welcome to Llanwaetur, welcome to Llanwaetur^ 
and Cot bless hur pretty face/^ said the old woman, 
- who followed Betty Williams out of the cottage. 

“ Hur’s my grandmother, Miss,” said Betty. 

‘‘Very likely — but let me see my Araminta,” cried 
Angelina: “cruel woman! where is she, I say?” 

“ Cot pless hur! — Cot pless hur pretty face,” repeat 
ed the old woman, courtesying. 

“My grandmother’s as deaf as a post. Miss — don’t 
mind her; she can’t tell Inglis well, put I can: who 
would you pe pleased to have ?” 

“ In plain English, then, the lady who lives in this 
cottage.” 

“ Our Miss Hodges?” 

This odious name of Hodges provoked Angelina, who 
was so used to call her friend Araminta, that she had 
almost forgotten her real name. 

“ O Miss,” continued Betty Williams, “ Miss Hodges 
has gone to Bristol for a few days.” 

“Gone! how unlucky ! my Araminta gone!” 

“Put Miss Hodges will pe pack on Tuesday — Miss 
Hodges did not expect her till Thursday — put hur ped 
is very well aired — pe pleased to walk in, and light hur 
a candle, and get hur a night-cap.” 

“ Heigho ! must I sleep again without seeing my 
Araminta! — well, but I shall sleep in a cottage for the 
first time in my life — 

“ ‘The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed.’ ” 

At this moment Angelina, forgetting to stoop, hit her- 
self a violent blow as she was entering Angelina Bower 
— the roof of which, indeed, “was too low for so lofty 
a head.” A headache came on, which kept her awake 
the greatest part of the night. In the morning she set 
about to explore the cottage ; it was nothing like the spe- 
cies of elegant retirement of which she had drawn such 
a charming picture in her imagination. It consisted of 
three small bed-chambers, which were more like what 
she had been used to call closets; a parlour, the walls of 
W'hich were, in many places, stained with damp; and a 
kitchen which smoked. The scanty moth-eaten furni- 

30 ^^ 


20 


MORAL TALES. 


ture of the rooms was very clifTerent from the luxury and 
elegance to \yhich Angelina had been accustomed in the 
apartments of Lady Diana Chillingworth. Coarse and ill- 
dressed was the food which Betty Williams, with great 
bustle and awkwardness, served up to her guest; but 
Angelina was no epicure. The first dinner which she 
ate on wooden trenchers delighted her ; the second, third, 
fourth, and fifth appeared less and less delectable, so that 
by the time she had boarded one week at her cottage she 
was completely convinced that 

“ A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, 

And water from the spring,” 

though delightful to Goldsmith’s hermit, are not quite 
so satisfactory in actual practice as in poetic theory ; at 
least to a young lady who had been habituated to all the 
luxuries of fashionable life. It was vain that our 
heroine repeated, 

“ Man wants but little here below 

she found that even the want of double-refined sugar, 
of green tea, and Mocha coffee, was sensibly felt. Hour 
after hour, and day after day, passed with Angelina in 
anxious expectation of her Araminta’s return home. 
Her time hung heavily upon her hands, for she had no 
companion with whom she could converse; and one 
odd volume of Rousseau’s Eloise and a few well-thumbed 
German plays were the only books which she could 
find in the house. There was, according to Betty 
Williams’s report, “ a vast sight of books in a press, 
along with some table-cloths,” but Miss Hodges had 
the key of this press in her pocket. Deprived of the 
pleasures both of reading and conversation, Angelina 
endeavoured to amuse herself by contemplating the 
beauties of nature. There were some wild, solitary 
walks in the neighbourhood of Angelina Bower; but 
though our heroine was delighted with these, she 
wanted, in her rambles, some kindred soul to whom she 
might exclaim, ‘‘How charming is solitude!” The 
day after her arrival in Wales, she wrote a long letter 
to Araminta, which Betty Williams undertook to send 
by a careful lad, a particular friend of her own, who 
would deliver it without fail into Miss Hodges’ own 


ANGELINA. 


21 


hands, and who would engage lo bring an answer by 
three o’clock the next day. The careful lad did not re- 
turn till four days afterward, and he then could give no 
account of his mission, except that he had left the letter 
at Bristol with a particular friend of his own, who would 
deliver it, without fail, into Miss Hodges’ own hands, 
if he could meet with her. The post seems lo be the 
last expedient which a heroine ever thinks of for the 
conveyance of her letters ; so that, if we were to judge 
from the annals of romance, we should infallibly con- 
clude there was no such thing as a posl-ofiice in Eng- 
land. On the sixth day of her abode at this comfortless 
cottage, the possibility of sending a letter lo her friend 
by the post occurred to Angelina, and she actually dis- 
covered that there was a post-office at Carditfe. Before 
she could receive an answer to this epistle, a circum- 
stance happened which made her determine to abandon 
her present retreat. One evening she rambled out to a 
considerable distance from the cottage, and it was long 
after sunset ere she recollected that it would be neces- 
sary to return homewards before it grew dark. She 
mistook her way at last, and following a sheep-path 
down the steep side of a mountain, she came lo a point 
at which she apparently could neither advance nor re- 
cede. A stout Welsh farmer, who was counting his 
sheep in a field at the top of the mountain, happened to 
look down its steep side in search of one of his flock that 
was missing : the farmer saw something white at a dis- 
tance below him, but there was a mist — it- was dusk in 
the evening — and whether it were a woman or a sheep 
he could not be certain. In the hope that Angelina was- 
his lost sheep, he went to her assistance, and though, 
upon a nearer view, he was disappointed in finding that 
she was a woman, yet he had the humanity to hold out 
his stick lo her, and he helped her up by it, with some 
difficulty. One of her slippers fell on as she scrambled 
up the hill — there was no recovering it; her other slipper, 
which was of the thinnest kid leather, was cut through 
by the stones ; her silk stockings were soon stained with 
the blood of her tender feet; and it was with real grati- 
tude that she accepted the farmer’s offer lo let her pass 


22 


MORAL TALES. 


the night at his farm-house, which was within view. 
Angelina Bower was, according to his computation, 
about four miles distant, as well, he said, as he could 
judge of the place she meant by her description : she 
had unluckily forgotten that the common name of it 
was Llanwaetur. At the farmer’s house she was at first 
hospitably received by a tight-looking woman; but she 
had not been inany minutes seated, before she found 
herself the object of much curiosity and suspicion. In 
one corner of the room, at a small round table, with a 
jug of ale before him, sat a man, who looked like the 
picture of a Welsh squire, a candle had just been lighted 
for his worship, for he was a magistrate and a great 
man in those parts, for he could read the newspaper, 
and his company was, therefore, always welcome to the 
farmer, who loved to hear the news, and the reader was 
paid for his trouble with good ale, which he loved even 
belter than literature. 

“ What news, Mr. Evans?” said the farmer. 

‘‘What news?” repeated Mr. Evans, looking up 
from his paper, with a sarcastic smile. “Why, news 
that might not be altogether so agreeable to the whole of 
this good company ; so ’tis best to keep it to ourselves.” 

“ Every thing’s agreeable to me, I’m sure,” said the 
farmer — “ every thing’s agreeable to me in the way of 
news.” 

“.And to me, not excepting politics, which you gen- 
tlemen always think so polite,” said the farmer’s wife, 
“to -keep to yourselves; but, you recollect, I was used 
to politics when I lived with my uncle at Cardifle; — not 
having, though a farmer’s wife, always lived in the 
country, as you see, ma’am — nor being quite illiterate. 
— Well, Mr. Evans, let us have it. What news of the 
fleets?” 

Mr. Evans made no reply, but pointed out a passage 
in the newspaper to the farmer, who leaned over his 
shoulder, in vain endeavouring to spell and put it to- 
gether : his smart wife, whose curiosity was at least 
equal to her husband’s, ran immediately to peep at the 
wonderful paragraph, and she read aloud the beginning 
of an advertisement; — 


ANGELINA. 


23 


“ Suspected to have strayed or eloped from her friends 
or relations, a young lady, seemingly not more than six- 
teen years of age, dressed in white, with a straw hat: 
blue eyes, light hair.’’ 

Angelina coloured so deeply while this was reading, 
and the description so exactly suited with her appear- 
ance, that the farmer’s wife stopped short; the farmer 
fixed his eyes upon her; and Mr. Evans cleared his 
throat several times wiili much significance. A general 
silence ensued ; at last the three heads nodded to one 
another across the round table ; the firmer whistled and 
walked out of the room ; his wife fidgeted at a buffet, 
in which she began to arrange some cups and saucers ; 
and, after a few minutes, she followed her husband.' 
Angelina took up the newspaper to read the remainder of 
the advertisement. She could not doubt that it was 
meant for her, when she saw that it was da’ted the very 
day of her arrival at the inn at Cardiffe, and signed by the 
landlady of the inn, Mrs. Hoel. Mr. Evans swallowed 
the remainder of his ale, and then addressed Angelina 
in these words ; — ■ 

“ Young lady, it is plain to see you know when the 
cap fits : now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll not make 
the match you have in your eye; for though a lord’s 
son, he is a great gambler. I dined with one that has 
dined with him not long ago. My son, who has a 
living near Bristol, knows a great deal — more about you 
than you’d think; and ’tis my advice to you, which I 
wouldn’t be at the trouble of giving if you were not as 
pretty as you are, to go back to your relations; for 
he’ll never marry you, and marriage, to be sure, is your 
object. I have no more to say, but only this — I shall 
think it ray duty, as a magistrate, to let your friends 
know as soon as possible where you are, coming under 
my cognizance as you do ; for a vagabond, in the eye 
of the law, is a person” — 

Angelina had not patience to listen to any more of 
this speech ; she interrupted Mr. Evans with a look of 
indignation, assured him that he was perfectly.^unintel- 
ligible to her, and walked out of the room with gr(^t 
ditrnitv. Her dignity made no impression upon the 


24 


MORAL TALES. 


farmer or his wife, who now repented having offered 
her a night’s lodging in their house. In the morning 
they were as eager to get rid of her as she was impa- 
tient to depart. Mr. Evans insisted upon seeing her ~ 
safe home, evidently for the purpose of discovering pre- 
cisely where she lived. Angelina saw that she could 
no longer remain undisturbed in her retreat, and deter- 
mined to set out immediately in quest of her unknown 
friend at Bristol. Betty Williams, who had a strong 
desire to have a jaunt to Bristol, a town which she had 
never seen but once in her life, offered to attend Miss 
Warwick, assuring her that she perfectly well 'knew 
the house where Miss Hodges always lodged. Her 
-offer was accepted; and what adventures our heroine 
met with in Bristol, and what difficulties she encoun- 
tered before she discovered her Araminta, will be seen 
in the next chapter. 

CHAPTER III. 

Angelina went by water from Cardiffe to Bristol ; 
the water was rather rough, and, as she was unused to 
the motion of a vessel, she was both frightened and sick. 
She spent some hours very disagreeably, and without 
even the sense of acting like a heroine to support her 
spirits. It was late in the evening before she arrived at 
the end of her voyage : she was, landed on the quay at 
Bristol. No hackney-coach was to be had, and she was 
obliged to \valk to the Bush. To find herself in the 
midst of a bustling, vulgar crowd, by whom she was un- 
known, but not unnoticed, was new to Miss Warwick. 
While she was with Lady Diana Chillingworth, she had 
always been used to see crowds make way for her; she 
was now surprised to feel herself jostled in the streets 
by passengers who were all full of their own affairs, 
hurrying different ways, in pursuit of object which pro- 
bably seemed to them as important as the search for an 
unknown friend appeared to Angelina. 

Betty Williams’s friend’s friend, the careful lad who 
was to deliver the letter to Miss Hodges, was a waiter 
at the Bush. Upon inquiry, it was found that he had 


ANGELINA. 


25 


totally forgotten his promise: Angelina’s letter was, 
after much search, found in a bottle-drainer, so much 
stained with port wine that it was illegible. The man 
answered with the most provoking nonchalance, when 
Angelina reproached him for his carelessness, “ that, 
indeed, no such person as Miss Hodges was to be found; 
that nobody he could meet with had ever heard the 
name.” They who are extremely enthusiastic suffer 
continually from the total indifference of others to their 
feelings; and young people can scarcely conceive the 
extent of this indifference until they have seen something 
of the world. Seeing the world does not always mean 
seeing a certain set of company in London. 

Angelina, the morning after her arrival at the Bush, 
took a hackney-coach, and left the care of directing the 
coachman to Betty Williams, who professed to have a 
perfect knowledge of Bristol. Betty desired the man to 
drive to the drawdridge; and at the sound of the word 
drawbridge, various associations of ideas with the draw- 
bridges of ancient times were called up in Miss War- 
wick’s imagination. How different was the reality 
from her castles in the air ! She was roused from her 
revery by the voices of Betty Williams and the coachman.- 
Where will I drive ye to, I ask you?” said the 
coachman, who was an Irishman ; “ wUl I stand all day 
upon the drawbridge stopping the passage ?” 

Trive on a step, and I will get out and see apout 
me,” said Betty : “ I know the look of the house as well 
as I know any thing.” 

Betty got out of the coach, and walked up and down 
the street, looking at the houses like one bewildered. 

‘‘ Bad luck to you, for a Welsh woman as you are!” 
exclaimed the coachman, jumping down from the box; 
** will I lave the young lady standing in the streets all 
day alone for you to be making a fool this way of us 
both ? Sorrow take me now ! If I do — ” 

Pless us I pe not in a pet or a pucker, or how shall 
I recollect anybody or anything! Good! cood! Stani 
you there while I just say over my alphabet: — a, p, c 
t, e, f, g, h, i, k, 1, m, n, o, b. It was some name whic^ 
pegins with 'P Pnds with a t nr'ljpve ” 
c 


26 


MORAL TALES. 


“ Kerens a pretty direction, upon my troth ! Some 
name which begins with ap and ends with a cried 
the coachman ; and after he had uttered half a score of 
Hibernian execrations upon the Welsh woman’s lolly, 
he with much good nature went along with her to read the 
names on the street doors. Here’s a name now that’s 
the very thing for you : here’s Pushit, now. Was the 
name Pushit ? Ricollict yourself, my good girl j was 
that your name?” 

“ Pushit! O yes, I am sure and pelieve it was Pushit 
— Mrs. Pushit’s house, Pristol, where our Miss Hodges 
lodges alway.” 

“Mrs. Pushit — ^but this is quite another man; I tell you 
this is Sir John. Faith, now we are in luck,” conti- 
nued the coachman ; “ here’s another jp just at hand; 
here’s Mrs. Puffit: sure she begins with ap and ends 
with a t, and is a milliner into the bargain! so, sure 
enough. I’ll engage the young lady lodges here. Puffit 
— hey ? Ricollict now, and don’t be looking as if you’r 
just been pulled out of your sleep, and had never been 
in a Christian town before now.” 

“ Pless us! Cot pless us!” said the Welsh girl, who 
was quite overpowered by the Irishman’s flow of words; 
and she was on the point of having recourse, in her own 
defence, to her native tongue, in which she could have 
matched either male or female in fluency ; but, to Ange- 
lina’s great relief, the dialogue between the coachman 
and Betty Williams ceased. The coachman drew up to 
Mrs. Puliit’s ; but, as there was a handsome carriage at 
the door. Miss Warwick was obliged to wait in her 
hackney-coach some time longer. The handsome car- 
riage belonged to Lady Frances Somerset. By one of 
those extraordinary coincidences which sometimes occur 
in real life, but which are scarcely believed to be natural 
when they are related in books, ]\^ss Warwick hap- 
pened to come to this shop at the very moment when 
the X persons she most wished to avoid were there. 
While the dialogue between Betty Williams and the 
hackney-coachman was passing. Lady Diana Chilling- 
vvonh and Miss Burrage were seated in Mrs. Puffit’s 
shop : Lady Diana was extremely busy bargaining 


ANGELINA. 


27 


With the milliner ; for, though rich, and a woman of 
quality, her ladyship piqued herself upon making the 
cheapest bargains in the world. 

‘‘ Your la’ship did not look at this eight-and-twenty 
shilling lace,” said Mrs, Puffit; “ ’tis positively the 
cheapest thing your la’ship ever saw. Jessy ! the laces 
in the litile blue bandbox. — Gtuick ! for my Lady Di. — 
Q,uick!” 

“ But it is out of my power to stay to look at any 
thing more now,” said Lady Diana j and yet,” whis- 
pered she to Miss Burrage, “ when one does go out a 
shopping, one certainly likes to bring home a bargain.” 

“ Certainly j but Bristol’s not the place for bargains,” 
said Miss Burrage ; “ you will find nothing tolerable, I 
assure you, my Dear Lady Di, at Bristol.” 

Why, my dear,” said her ladyship, “ were you ever 
at Bristol before? How comes it that 1 never heard that 
you were at Bristol before? Where were you, child?” 

‘‘At the Wells, at the Wells, ma’am,” replied Miss 
Burrage, and she turned pale and red in the space of a 
few seconds; but Lady Diana, who was very near- 
sighted, was holding her head so close to the blue band- 
box full of lace, that she could not see the changes in 
her companion’s countenance. The fact was, thal Miss 
Burrage was born and bred in Bristol, where she had 
several relations, who were not in high life, and by 
whom she consequently dreaded to be claimed. When 
she first met Lady Diana Chillingworth at Buxton, she 
had passed herself upon her for one of the Burrages of 
Dorsetshire, and she knew that if her ladyship was to 
discover the truth she would cast her off with horror. 
For this reason, she had done every thing in her power 
to prevent Lady Di from coming to Clifton ; and for this 
reason she now endeavoured to persuade her that no- 
thing tolerable ecu Id be met with at Bristol. 

“I am afraid. Lady Di, you will be late at Lady 
Mary’s,” said she. 

“ Look at this lace, child, and give me your opinion— 
eight-and-twenty shillings, Mrs. Puffit, did you say?” 

Eight-and-twenty, my lady; and I lose by every 
yard I sell at that price. “ Ma’am, you see,” said Mrs. 

31 


28 


MORAL TALES. 


Puffit, appealing to Miss Burrage, ’tis real Valen- 
ciennes, you see.’’ 

“ I see ’tis horrid dear,” said Miss Barrage : then, in 
a whisper to Lady Di, she added, “ at Miss Trenth- 
ham’s, at the Wells, your ladyship will meet with such 
bargains !” 

Mrs. Puffiit put her lace upon the alabaster neck of 
the large doll which stood in the middle of her shop. 
“ Only look, my lady — only see, ma’am, how beautiful 
becoming ’tis to the neck, and sets off a dress too, you 
know, ma’am. And” (turning to Miss Burrage) eight- 
and-twenty, you know, ma’am, is really nothing for 
any lace you’d wear; but more particularly for real 
Valenciennes, which can scarce be had real, for love or 
money, since the French revorlution — real Valen- 
ciennes ! — and will wear and Avash, and wash and wear 
(not that your ladyship minds that) for ever and ever — and 
is such a bargain, and so becoming to the neck, espe- 
cially to ladies of your ladyship’s complexion.” 

“ Well, I protest, I believe, Burrage, I don’t know 
what to say, ray dear, hey?” 

“I’m told,” whispered Miss Burrage, “that Miss 
Trentham’s to have a lace raffle at the Wells next week.” 

“A raffle!” cried Lady Di, turning her back imme- 
diately upon the doll and the lace. 

“Well,” cried Mrs. Puffit, “instead of eight say 
seven-and-twenty shillings. Miss Burrage for old ac- 
quaintance sake.” 

“■ Old acquaintance!” exclaimed Miss Burrage; “la! 
Mrs. Puffit, I don’t remember ever being twice in your 
shop all the time I was at the Wells before.” 

“ No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Puffit, with a malicious 
smile, “but when you was living on St. Augustin’s 
Back.” 

Saint Augustin’s Back, my dear!” exclaimed 
Lady Diana Chillingworth, with a look of horror and 
amazement. 

Miss Burrage, laying down a bank-note on the 
counter, made a quick and expressive sign to the mil- 
liner to hold her tongue. 

“ Dear Mrs. Puffit.” cried she, “ you certainly mis* 


ANGELINA. 


29 


take me for some other strange person. Lady Di, now 
I look at it with my glass, this lace is very fine, I mus* 
agree with you, and not dear by any means for real 
Valenciennes: cut me off three yards of this lace; 1 
protest there's n6 withstanding it, Lady Di,” 

“ Three yards at eighi-and-twenty — here, Jessy,” 
said Mrs. Puffit. “ I beg your pardon, ma’am for my 
mistake; I supposed it was some other lady of the 
same name; there are so many Burrages. Only ihree 
yards did you say, ma’am?” 

“ Nay, T don’t care if you give me four. Pm of the 
Burrages of Dorsetshire.” 

‘‘A very good family, those Burrages of Dorsetshire, 
as any in England,” said Lady Di ; “ and put up twelve 
yards of this for me, Mrs. Puffit.” 

‘‘Twelve at eight-and-twenty — yes, my lady — very 
much obliged to your ladyship — much obliged to you. 
Miss Burrage. Here, Jessy, this to my Lady Di Chil- 
lingvvorth’s carriage.” Jessy called at the shop-door, in 
a shrill voice, to a black servant of Lady Frances So- 
merset — “Mr, Hector, Mr, Hector! — Sir, pray put this 
parcel into the carriage for Lady Diana Chillingworth.” 

Angelina, who was wailing in her hackney-coach, 
started; she could scarcely believe that she heard the 
name rightly : but, an instant afterward, the voice of 
Lady Diana struck her ear, and she sank back in great 
agitation. However, neither Miss Burrage nor Lady Di 
saw her ; they got into their carriage and drove away. 

Angelina was so much alarmed, that she could 
scarcely believe that the danger was past when she sdw 
the carriage at the farthest end of the street. 

“Would’nt you be pleased to ’light, ma’am 1” said 
Jessy. “ We don’t bring things to the door.” 

“Who have we here?” cried Mrs. Puffit; “who 
have we here?” 

“ Only some folks out of a hack that was kept wait- 
ing, and couldn’t draw up while my Lady Di’s carriage 
was at the door,” said Jessy. 

“ A good pretty girl, the foremost,” said Mrs. Puffit. 
“ But, in the name of wonder, what’s that odd hsh 
coming behind her?” 

c2 


30 


MORAL TALES. 


“A queer-looking pair, in good truth!’’ said Jessy. 

Angelina seated herself, and gave a deep sigh — 
‘‘ Ribands, if you please, ma’am,” said she to Mrs. 
Pufiit. “I must,” thought she, ask for something 
before I ask for my Araminta.” 

Ribands — yes, ma’am — what sort ? — Keep an eye 
upon the glass,” whispered the milliner to her shop- 
girl, as she stooped behind the counter for a drawer of 
ribands — “ keep an eye on the glass, Jessy — a girl of 
the town, I take it. What colour, ma’am?” 

“ Blue — ‘ cerulean blue.’ Here child,” said Angelina, 
turning to Betty Williams, “ here’s a riband for you.” 

Betty Williams did not hear, for Betty w’as fascinated 
by the eyes of the great doll, opposite to which she stood 
fixed. 

Lord, what a fine lady ! and how hur stares at Betty 
Williams!” thought she : “ I wish hur would take her 
eyes off me.” 

“ Betty ! — Betty Williams ! — a riband for you,” cried 
Angelina, in a louder tone. 

Betty started — “ Miss ! — a riband !” She ran forward, 
and in pushing by the doll threw it backward: Mrs. 
Puffit caught it in her arms, and Betty, stopping short, 
courtesied, and said to the doll, “Peg pardon, miss — 
peg pardon, miss — tit I hurt you '? — peg pardon. Pless 
us ’tis a toll, and no w'oman I teclare.” 

The milliner and Jessy now burst into uncontrollable, 
and, as Angelina feared, “ unextinguishable laughter.” 
Nothing is so distressing to a sentimental heroine as 
ridicule: Miss Warwick perceived that she had her 
share of that which Betty Williams excited; and she 
who imagined herself to be capable of “ combating, in 
all its Proteus forms, the system of social slavery,” was 
unable to withstand the laughter of a milliner and her 
’prentice. 

“Do you please to want anything else, ma’am?” 
said Mrs. Puffit, in a saucy tone — “ Rouge, perhaps.” 

“ I wish to know, madam,” said Angelina, “ whether 
a lady of the name of Hodges does not lodge here?” 

“ A lady of the name of Hodges — no, m.a’am — Pm 
very particular about lodgers— no such lady ever lodged 


ANGELINA. 31 

With me. — Jessy! to the door — quick! — Lady Mary 
Tasselton’s carriage.” 

Angelina hastily rose and departed. While Jessy ran 
to the door, and while Mrs. Pulht’s attention was fixed 
upon Lady Mary Tasselton’s carriage, Betty Williams 
twitched from off the doll’s shoulders the remainder of 
the piece of Valenciennes lace which had been left there. 

Since hur’s only wood. I’ll make free,” said she to 
herself, and she carried off the lace unobserved. 

Angelina’s impatience to find her Araminta was in- 
creased by the dread of meeting Lady Di Chillingworth 
in every carriage that passed, and in every shop where 
she might call. At the next house at which the coach- 
man stopped, the words Dinah Plait, relict of Jonas Plait, 
cheesemonger, were written in large letters over the 
shop-door. Angelina thought she was in no danger 
of meeting her ladyship here, and she alighted. There 
was no one in the shop but a child of seven years old; 
he could not^ understand well what Angelina or Betty 
said, but he 'ran to call his aunt. Dinah Plait was at 
dinner; and when the child opened the door of the par- 
lour, there came forth such a savoury smell that Betty 
Williams, who was extremely hungry, could not for- 
bear putting her head in, to see what was upon the table. 

Pless bur! heggs and paeon and toasted cheese — 
Cot pless hur!” exclaimed Betty. 

‘^Aunt Dinah,” said the child, ‘Mrere^are two women 
in some great distress, they told me; and astray and 
hungry.” 

In some great distress, and astray and hungry ! then 
let them in here, child, this minute.” 

There was seated at a small table, in a perfectly neat 
parlour, a Gluaker, whose benevolent countenance 
charmed Angelina the moment she entered the room. 

‘^Pardon this intrusion,” said she. 

“ Friend, 'thou art welcome,” said Dinah Plait and 
her looks said so more expressively than her words. 
An elderly man rose, and leaving the corkscrew in the 
half-drawn cork of a bottle of cider, he set a chair for 
Angelina and withdrcAv to the window. 

“Be seated, and eat, for verily thou seemest to be 

3D 


32 


MORAL TALES. 


hungry,” said Mrs. Plait to Betty Williams, who. in- 
stantly obeyed, and began to eat like one that had been 
half-famished. 

“ And now, friend, thy business, thy distress — what 
is it?” said Dinah, turning to Angelina: “so young 
to have sorrows.” 

“ I had best take myself away,” said the elderly gen- 
tleman who stood at the window — “ I had best take my- 
self away, for Miss may not like to speak before me — 
though she might for that matter.” 

“ Where is the gentleman going?” said Miss War- 
wick; “I have but one short question to ask, and I 
have nothing to say that need” — 

“I dare say, young lady, you can have nothing to say 
that you need be ashamed of, only people in distress 
don’t like so well to speak before third folks, I guess — 
though, to say the truth, I have never known by my 
own experience what it was to be in much distress since 
I came into the world — but I hope I am not the more 
hard-hearted for that — for I can guess, I say, pretty 
well, how those in distress feel when they come to 
speak. Do as you would be done by, is my maxim till 
I can find a better — so I take myself away, leaving my 
better part behind me, if it will be of any service to you. 
Madam.” 

As he passed by Miss Warwick he dropped his purse 
into her lap, and he was gone before she could recover 
from her surprise. 

“Sir! — Madam!” cried she, rising hastily, “here 
has been some strange mistake — I am not a beggar — I 
am much, very much obliged to jmu, but” — 

“Nay, keep it friend; keep it,” said Dinah Plait, 
pressing the purse upon Angelina; “John Barker is as 
rich as a Jew, and as generous as a prince. Keep it, 
friend, and you’ll oblige both him and me — ’tis danger- 
ous in this world for one so young and so pretty as you 
are to be in great distress ; so be not proud.” 

‘^lam not proud,” said Mis Warwick, drawing her 
purse from her pocket; “ but my distress is not of a pe- 
cuniary nature. — Convince yourself — I am in distress 
only for a friend, an tinknown friend.” 


ANGELINA. 


33 


Touched in her brain, I doubt/^ thought Dinah. 

‘‘ Coot ale ! exclai med Betty W illiams — “ Coot heggs 
and paeon.” 

“ Does a lady of the name of Araminta — Miss 
Hodges, I mean — lodge here?” said Miss Warwick. 

“Friend, I do not let lodgings; and I know of no 
such person as Miss Hodges.” 

“ Well, I swear hur name, the coachman told me, 
did begin with a p and end with a t,” cried Betty Wil- 
liams, “or I would never have let him knock at hur toor.” 

“ Oh, my Araminta ! my Araminta !” exclaimed An- 
gelina, turning up her eyes towards heaven — when, 
O when shall I find thee ? I am the most unfortunate 
person upon earth.” ' 

Had not her petter eat a‘ hegg and a pit of paeon ? 
here’s one pit left,” said Betty ; “ hur must be hungry, 
for ’tis two o’clock past, and we preakfasted at nine — 
hur must he hungry and Betty pressed her to try the 
paeon ; but Angelina put it away, or, in the proper 
style, motioned the bacon from her. 

“ I am in no want of food,” cried she, rising : “ hap- 
py they who have no conception of any but corporeal 
sufferings. Farewell, Madam! — may the sensibility of 
which your countenance is so strongly expressive never 
be a source of misery to you I” — and with that depth 
of sigh which suited the close of such a speech, Ange- 
lina withdrew. 

If I could but have felt her pulse,” said Dinah Plait 
to herself, “ I could have prescribed something that, 
maybe, would have done her good, poor distracted thing! 
Now it was well done of John Barker to leave this purse 
for her — but how is this — poor thing! she’s not fit to be 
trusted with money — here she has left her own purse 
full of guineas.” 

Dinah ran immediately to the house-door in hopes of 
being able to catch Angelina; but the coach had turned 
down into another street, and was out of sight. Mrs. 
Plait sent for her constant counsellor, John Barker, to 
deliberate on the means of returning the purse. It 
should be mentioned, to the credit of Dinah’s benevo- 
lence, that at the moment when she was interrupted by 


34 


MORAL TALES. 


the entrance of Betty Williams and Angelina, she was 
hearing the most flattering things from a person who 
was not disagreeable to her : her friend, John Barker, 
was a rich hosier, who had retired from business ; and 
who, without any ostentation, had a great deal of real 
feeling and generosity. But the fastidious taste of Jine 
or sentimental readers will probably be disgusted by our 
talking of the feelings and generosity of a hosier and a 
cheesemonger’s widow. It belongs to a certain class of 
people to indulge in the luxury of sentiment; we shall 
follow our heroine, therefore, who, both from her birth 
and education, is properly qualified to have exquisite 
feelings.” 

The next house at which Angelina stopped to search 
for her amiable AramintaVas at Mrs. Porett’s academy 
for young ladies. 

“ Yes, ma’am. Miss Hodges is here. — Pray walk into 
this room, and you shall see the young lady immediate- 
ly.” Angelina burst into the room insta:ntly, exclaim- 
ing— 

'‘Oh my Ararninta, have I found you at last?-” 

She slopped short, a little confounded at finding her- 
self in a large room full of young ladies, who were 
dancing reels, and who all stood still at one and the same 
instant, and fixed their eyes upon her, struck with as- 
tonishment at her theatrical entree and exclamation. 

“Miss Hodges !” said Mrs. Porett — and a little girl of 
seven years old came forward: — “ here, ma’am,” said 
Mrs. Porett to Angelina, “ here is Miss Hodges.” 

“Not my Miss Hodges! not my Ararninta! alas!” 

“ No, ma’am,” said the little girl ; “ I am only Letty 
Hodges.” 

Several of her companions now began to titter. 

“ These girls,” said Angelina to herself, “ take me for 
a fool; and, turning to Mrs. Porett, she apologized foi 
the trouble she had given, in language as little romantic 
as she could condescend to use. 

“ Tid you bid me. Miss, wait in the coach or the pas- 
sage?” cried Betty Williams, forcing her way in at the 
door, so as almost to push down the dancing- master, 
who stood with his back to it. — Betty stared round, and 


ANGELIxYA. 


35 


dropped courtesy after courtesy, while the young ladies 
laughed and whispered, and whispered and laughed ; and 
the words odd — vulgar — strange — who is she ? — what is 
she? — reached Miss Warwick. 

“This Welsh girl,” thought she, “is my torment. 
Wherever I go she makes me share the ridicule of her 
folly.” 

Clara Hope, one of the young ladies, saw and pitied 
Angelina’s confusion. 

“ Gif over, an ye have any gude-nature — Gif over 
your whispering and laughing,” said Clara to her com- 
panions : “ ken ye not ye make her so bashful she’d 
fain hide her face wi’ her iwa hands.” 

But it was in vain that the good-natured Clara Hope 
remonstrated : her companions could not forbear titter- 
ing, as Betty Williams, upon Miss Warwick’s laying 
the blame of the mistake on her, replied in strong Welsh 
accent — 

“ I will swear almost the name was Porett or Plait, 
where our Miss Hodges tid always lodge in Pristol. 
Porett, or Plait, or Puffit, or some of hur names that 
pekin with a p and ent with a f.” 

Angelina, quite overpowered, shrank back as Belty 
bawled out her vindication, and she was yet more con- 
fused when Monsieur Richelet, the dancing-master, at 
this unlucky instant, came up to her, and with an elegant 
bow, said, “It is not difficult to see by her air that 
Mademoiselle dances superiorly. — Mademoiselle, vould 
she do me de plaisir — de honneur to dance one minuet? ” 

“Oh, if she would but dance!” whispered some of 
the group of young ladie§. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said Miss Warwick. 

“ Not a minuet ? — den a minuet de la cour, a cotillon, 
or contre danse, or reel ; vatever Mademoiselle please 
vill do us honneur.” 

Angelina, with a mixture of impatience and confusion, 
repeated, “Excuse me, sir — I am going — I interrupt — 
I beg I may not interrupt.” 

“ A coot morrow to you all, creat and small,” said 
Betty Williams, courtesying awkwardly at the door as 
she went out before Miss Warwick. 


36 


MORAL TALES. 


The young ladies were now diverted so much beyond 
the bounds of decorum that Mrs. Porett was obliged to 
call them to order. 

Oh, my Araminta, what scenes have I gone through ! 
to what derision have I exposed myself for your sakeP’i 
said our heroine to herself. 

Just as she was leaving the dancing room, she was 
stopped short by Betty Williams, who, Avith a face of 
' terror, exclaimed, “ ’Tisa poy in the hall that I tare not 
pass for my lifes; he has a pasket full of pees, in his 
hand, and I cannot apide pees eA^er since one tay when I 
was a chilt, and Avas stung on the nose by a pee. The 
poy in the hall has a pasket full of pees, ma’am,?’ said 
Betty, Avilh an imploring accent, to Mrs. Porett. 

‘‘ A basketful of bees !” said Mrs. Porett, laughing : 
“ O, you are mistaken : I knoAV what the boy has in his 
basket — they are only flowers j they are not bees; you 
may safely go by them.” 

“ Put 1 saAV pees Avith my OAvn eyes,” persisted Betty. 

‘‘Only a basketful of the bee orchis, Avhich I commis- 
sioned a little boy to bring from St. Vincent’s rocks for 
my young botanists,” said Mrs. Porett to Angelina: 
“ you knoAV the flower is so like a bee, that at first sight 
you might easily mistake it.” Mrs. Porett, to convince 
Betty Williams that she had no cause for fear, Aventon 
before her into the hall ; but Betty still hung back, cry- 
ing— 

“ It is a pasket full of pees ! I saAV the pees Avith my 
own eyes.” 

The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young 
ladies in the dancing-room : they looked out to see Avhat 
was the matter. 

“Oh, ’tis the Avee Avee French prisoner boy, Avith the 
bee orchises for us — there, I see him standing in the 
hall,” cried Clara Hope, and instantly she ran, followed 
by several of her companions, into the hall. 

“You see that they are not bees,” said Mrs. Porett to 
Betty Williams, as she took several of the floAvers in her 
hand. Betty, half-convinced, yet half-afraid, moved a 
feAV steps into the hall. 

“You have no cause for dread,” said Clara Hope* 


ANGELINA. 37 

t 

‘^'poor boy, he has nought in his basket that can hurl 
anybody,” 

Betty Williams’ heavy foot was now set upon the 
train of Clara’s gown, and, as the young lady sprang 
forward, her gown, which was of thin muslin, was torn 
so as to excite the commisseration of all her young com- 
panions. 

‘‘What a terrible rent! and her best gown!” said 
they. “ Poor Clara Hope!” 

“Plessus! peg pardon. Miss!” cried the awkward, 
and terrified Betty: “peg pardon. Miss,” 

“ Pardon’s granted,” said Clara; and while her com- 
panions stretched out her train, deploring the length and 
breadth of her misfortune, she went on speaking to the 
little French boy. “ Poor wee boy ! ’tis a sad thing to 
be in a strange country, far away from one’s ane kin 
and happy hame — poor wee thing,” said she,' slipping 
some money into his hand. 

“ What a heavenly countenance!” thought Angelina, 
as she looked at Clara Hope; “ Oh that my Araminta 
may resemble her!” 

“ Plait il — take vat you vant— tank you,” said the lit- 
tle boy, offering to Clara Hope his basket of flowers, 
and a small box of trinkets which he held in his hand. 

“Here’s a many pretty toys — who’ll buy?” cried 
Clara, turning to her companions. 

The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket 
“ Is he in distress ?” said Angelina ; “ perhaps I can be 
of some use to him!” and she put her hand into her 
pocket, to feel for her purse. 

“ He’s a very honest, industrious little boy,” said Mrs. 
Porett; “and he supports his parents by his active in- 
genuity,” 

“And, Louis, is your father sick still !” continued 
Clara Hope to the poor boy. 

“ Bien malade ! bien malade ! very sick ! very sick !” 
said he. 

The unaffected language of real feeling and benevo- 
lence is easily understood, and is never ridiculous ; even 
in the broken French of little Louis, and the broad Scotch 
tone of Clara, it was' both intelligible and agreeable. 

D 


38 


MORAL TALES. 


Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her 
pocket for her purse. 

‘^Tis gone — certainly gone!” she exchimed : ‘^Pve 
lost it ! lost my purse ! Betty, do you know any thing of it.? 

I had it at Mrs. Plait’s I — What shall I do for this poor 
little fellow? — This trinket is of gold!” said she, taking 
from her neck a locket — Here, my little fellow, I have 
no money to give you, take this — nay, you must, indeed.” 

“ Tanks ! tanks ! bread for my poor fader! joy ! joy ! , 
— too much joy ! too much !” 

^‘You see you were wrong to laugh at her,” whispered 
Clara Hope to her companions : I liked her lukes from 
the first.” 

Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied 
and satisfied Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for 
her unknown friend ; and it was not till one of the chil- 
dren observed the lock of hair in her locket that she 
recollected her accustomed cant of — 

O my JLraminta ! my amiable Araminta ! could I part 
with that hair, more precious than gold !” 

“ Pless us!” said Betty j “put if she has lost her 
purse, who shall pay for the coach, and what will pecome 
of our tinners ?” 

Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory 
dignity. ' 

Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and 
who had been interested for our heroine, by her good 
nature to the little French boy, followed Miss Warwick 
as she left the room. 

“ Let me detain you but for a few minutes,” said she,, 
opening the door of a little study. “ You have nothing 
to fear from any impertinent curiosity on my part; but, 
perhaps, I may be of some assistance to you.” Miss 
Warwick could not refuse to be detained a few minutes 
by so friendly a voice. 

“ Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta 
several times since you came into this house,” said Mrs. 
Porett, with something of embarrassment in her manner, 
for she was afraid of appearing impertinent. I know, 
or at least I knew, a lady who writes under that name, 
and whose real name is Hodges.” 


ANGELINA. 39 

O, a thousand, thousand thanks !” cried Angelina . 
“ tell me, where can I find her?” 

“Are you acquainted with her? You seem to be a 
stranger, young lady, in Bristol? Are you acquainted 
with Miss Hodges’ whoh history ?” 

Yes, her whole history; every feeling of her soul, 
every thought of her mind!” cried Angelina, with en- 
thusiasm. We have corresponded for two years past.” 

Mrs. Porett smiled : It is not always possible,” said 
she, to judge of ladies by their letters. I am not 
inclined to believe above half what the world says, 
according to Lord Chesterfield’s allowance for scandal- 
ous stories ; but it may be necessary to warn you, as 
you seem very young, that — ” 

Madam,” cried Angelina, young as I am, I know 
that superior genius and virtue are the inevitable objects 
of scandal. It is in vain to detain me further.” 

“ I am truly sorry for it,” said Mrs. Porett ; but per- 
haps you will allow me to tell you that — ” 

“ No, not a word ; not a word more will I hear,” cried 
our heroine ; and she hurried out of the house, and 
threw herself into the coach. Mrs. Porett contrived, 
however, to make Betty Williams hear, that the most 
probable means of gaining any intelligence of Miss 
Hodges would be to inquire for her at the shop of Mr. 
Beatson, who was her printer. To Mr. Beatson’s they 
drove though Betty professed that she was half-un- 

willing to inquire for Miss Hodges from any one whose 
name did not begin with a p, and end with a t. 

What a pity it is,” said Mrs. Porett, when sne re- 
turned to her pupils — what a pity it is that this young 
lady’s friends should permit her to go about in a hackney- 
coach, with such a strange, vulgar-servant-girl as that! 
She is too young to know-how quickly, and often how 
severely, the world judges by appearances. Mi§s Hope, 
now we talk of appearances, you forget that your gown 
IS torn, and you do not know, oerhaps, that your friend, 
Lady Frances Somerset — ” 

^^Lady Frances Somerset !” cried Clara Hope — I 
lov'^e to hear her very name.” 

“For which reason you interrupt me the moment I 


40 


‘MORAL TALES. 


mention it — I have a great mind not to tell you — that 
Lady Frances Somerset has invited you to go to the play 
with her to-night : — ‘ The Merchant of Venice, and the 
A-dopied Child.’ ” 

Gude-natured Lady Frances Somerset, Pm sure an^ 
if Clara Hope had been your adopted child twenty times 
over, you cude not have been more kind to her nor you 
have been. No, not had she been your ane country- 
woman, and of your ane clan — and all for the same 
reasons that make some neglect and look down upon 
her — because Clara is not meikle rich, and is far away 
from her ane friends. Gude Lady Frances Somerset! 
Clara Hope loves you in her heart, and she’s as blythe 
wi’ the thought o’ ganging to see you as if she were 
going to dear Inverary.” 

It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss War- 
wick did not stay a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett’s, 
that she might have heard this eulogium on Lady Frances 
Somerset, and might have a second time, in one day, 
discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting 
with the persons she most dreaded to see ; but, however 
temptingly romantic such an incident would have been, 
we must, according to our duty as faithful historians, 
deliver a plain unvarnished tale.' 

Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson’s, and as soon 
as she had pronounced the name of Hodges, the printer 
called to his devil for a parcel of advertisements, which 
he put into her hand; they were proposals for printing 
by subscription a new novel — “"The Sorrows of Ara- 
minta.” 

*^‘0 myAraminta! my amiable Araminta! have I 
found you at last? — The Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in 
nine volumes— O charming ! — together ivith a tragedy on 
the same plan — Delightful! — Subscriptions received at 
Joseph Beatson's, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael 
Hodges — Odious name! — at Mrs. Bertrand\s.” 

Bar brand! — There now, you, do ye hear that? the 
lady lives at Mrs. Bartrand’s : how will you make out 
now that Baitrand begins with a p, and ends with a f, 
now?” said the hackney -coachman to Betty, who was 
standing at the door. 


ANGELIXA.. 41 

Pertraiit ! ivhy,” cried Betty, what would you 
have?” 

Silence, O silence !’’ said Miss Warwick, and she 
continued reading — “ Subscrijytiofis received at Mrs. Ber^ 
trand’s.” 

‘‘Pertrant, you ear, plockhead, you Irishman !” cried 
Betty Williams. 

Bartrand — you have no ears ! Welsh woman as you 
are.” retorted Terence O’Grady. 

‘^^Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Ara- 
minta,” continued our heroine ; but, looking up, she saw 
Betty Williams arid the hackney-coachman making 
menacing faces and gestures at one another. 

Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven’s sake!” 
said Angelina ; “ if you must fight,fight out of my sight.” 

“ For shame, before the young lady !” said Mr. Beat- 
son, holding the hackney coachman : “have done dis- 
puting so loud.” 

“ I’ve done, but she is wrong,” cried Terence. 

“I’ve'done, put he is wrong,” said Betty. 

Terence was so much provoked by the Welsh woman, 
that he declared he would not carry her a step farther 
in his coach — that his beasts were tired, and that he 
must be paid his fare, for that he neither, could nor 
would wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by 
Angelina to pay him. She hesitated; but after being 
assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should be punc- 
tually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that 
she had silver enough “ in a little box at the bottom of 
her pocket ;” and after much fumbling she pulled out a 
snuff-box, which, she said, had been given to her by her 
•“ creat-crandmother.” — While she was paying the 
coachman, the printer’s devil observed one end of a piece 
of lace hanging out of her pocket ; she had, by accident, 
pulled it out along with the snuff-box. 

“ And was this your great-grandmother’s too ?” said 
the printer’s devil, taking hold of the lace. 

Betty started. — Angelina was busy, making inquiries 
from the printer, and she did not see or hear what was 
passing close to her: the coachmnn was intent upon 
the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great as- 

u2 

r*' 


453 


MORAL TALES. 


su ranee, reproved the printer’s devil for touching ^ucU 
lace with his plack fingers. 

“ ’Tvvas not my crandmoiher^s — ’tis the young lady’s,*^ 
said she : let it pe, pray — look how you have placked 
it, and marked it with plack fingers.” 

She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and 
immediatly went out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call 
another coach. 

Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand’s, we 
must beg leave to go, and, if we can, to transport our 
readers with us, to Lady Frances Somerset’s house, at 
Clifton. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Well, how I am to get up this hill again Heaven 
knows !” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, who had been 
prevailed upon to walk down Clifton Hill to the Wells. — 
“ Heigho ! that sister of mine. Lady Frances, walks, and 
talks, and laughs, and admires the beauties of nature till 
I’m half dead.” 

“ Why, indeed, Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow,” 
said Miss Burrage, “is not the fittest companion in the 
world for a person of your ladyship’s nerves j but then, 
it is to be hoped that the glass of water which you have 
just taken fresh at the pump will be of service, provided 
the racketing to Bristol to the play don’t counteract it, 
and undo all again.” 

“ How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!” 
said Miss Burrage to herself — “ some of my precious 
relations njay be there to claim me. My aunt Dinah — 
God bless her for a starched Guaker — would not be seen 
at a play, I’m sure — so she’s safe ; — but the odious sugar- 
baker’s daughters might be there, dizened out; and be- 
tween the acts, their great tall figures might rise in 
judgment against me — spy me out — ^stare and courtesy — 
pop — pop— pop at me without mercy^ or bawl out across 
the benches, ‘ Cousin Burrage! cousin Burrage !’ and 
Lady Diana .Chillingworth to hear it ! — O, I should sink 
into the earth.” 


ANGELINA. 


43 


"What amusement,” continued Miss Burrage, ad- 
dressing herself to Lady Di, "what amusement Lady 
Frances Somerset can find at a Bristol playhouse, and 
at this time of the year too, is to me really unaccount- 
able.” 

" I do suppose,” replied. Lady Diana, " that my sister 
goes only to please that child — (Clara Hope, I think they, 
call her) — not to please me, I’m sure; — but what is she 
doing all this time in the pump-room? does she know 
we are waiting for her? — O, here she comes. — Frances, 
I am half dead.” 

" Half dead, my dear ! well, here is something to bring 
you to life again,” said Lady Frances: " I do believe I 
have found out Miss Warwick.” 

"I am sure, my dear, that does not revive me; I’ve 
been almost plagued to death Aviih her already,” said Lady 
Diana. 

"There’s no living in this world without plagues of 
some sort or other ; but the pleasure of doing good makes 
one forget them all. Here, look at this advertisement, 
my dear,” said Lady Frances : " a gentleman whom I 
have just met wuth in the pump-room was reading it in 
the newspaper when I came in, and a whole lot of scan- 
dal-mongers were settling who it could possibly be. One 
snug little man, a Welsh curate, I believe, was certain 
it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath, who is said to 
have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left 
the Welshman in the midst of a long story about his 
father and a young lady who lost her shoe on the Welsh 
mountains, and I ran away with the paper to bring it 
to you.” Lady Diana received the paper with an air of 
reluctance. 

Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?” said Lady 
Frances. 

" I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from 
beginning to end.” 

" Ah, because you are not come to the end yet : look — 
’tis from Mrs. Hoel, of the inn at Cardiff, and, by the 
date, she must have been there last week.” 

» Who— Mrs. Hoel?” 

"Miss Warwick, my dear; I beg pardon for my pro- 

32 # 




44 


MORAL TALES. 


noun — but do read this : eyes — hair — complexion— age 
i~size — it certainly must be Miss WarwicL’^ 

“And what then?’^ said Lady Di, with provoking 
coldness, walking on towards home. 

“ Why then, my dear, you know we can go to CardifTe 
to-morrow morning, find the poor girl, and before any- 
body knows any thing of the matter, before her reputa- 
tion is hurt or you blamed, before any harm can happen, 
convince the girl of her folly and imprudence, and bring 
her back to you and common sense.’^ 

“To common sense, and welcome, if you can; but 
not to me.’^ 

“ Not to you ! Nay, but, my dear, what will become 
of her?” 

“Nay, but my dear Frances, what will the world 
say?” 

“Of her?” 

“ Of me.” 

'^My dear Di, shall I tell you what the world would 
say ?” 

“ No, Lady Prances ; Pll tell you what the world 
would say — that Lady Diana Cnillingworth^s house 
was an asylum for runaways.” 

“ An asylum for nonsense ! I beg your pardon, sister, 
but it always provokes me to see a person afraid to do 
what they think right, because, truly, the world will 
say it is wrong.’ What signifies the uneasiness we may 
suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, com- 
pared with the happiness of a young girl’s whole life, 
which is at stake?” 

“O, Lady Frances, that is spoke like yourself; I love 
you in my heart— that’s right! that’s right!” thou^it 
-Clara Hope. 

Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might con- 
sult one whose advice she always found agreeable to her 
own opinions. 

“In my opinion,” whispered Miss Burrage to Lady 
Diana, “ you are right, quite right, to have nothing more 
to do with the happiness of a young lady who has taken 
such a step.” 

They were just leaving St. Vincent’s parade, when 


ANGELINA. 


4/5 


they heard the sound of music upon the walk by the 
river-side, and they saw a little boy there, seated at the 
foot of a tree, playing on the guitar, and singing, 

“ J’ai quitt4 mon pays et mes amis, 

Pour jouer de la guittarre, 

Qiii va din, din, qui va din, din, 

Qui va din, din, din, din.” 

Ha ! my wee wee friend,” said Clara Hope, “ are 
you here? I was just thinking of you — just wishing 
for you. By gude luck, have you the weeny locket 
about you that the young lady gave you this morning? 
—the weeny locket, my bonny boy ?” 

Plait il?” said little Louis. 

‘‘ He don’t understand one word,’’ said Miss Burrage, 
laughing sarcastically ; ‘‘ he don’t understand one word 
of all your bonnys, and wee wees and weenies, Miss Hope ; 
he unfortunately don’t understand broad Scotch, and 
maybe he mayn’t be so great a proficient as you are in 
boarding-school F'rench ; but I’ll try if he can understand 
me, if you’ll tell me whal you want.” 

“ Such a trinket as this,” said Clara, showing a locket 
which hung from her neck. i 

Ah, oui — yes, I comprehend now,” cried the boy, 
taking from his coat- pocket a small case of trinkets ; “ la 
voila! here is vat de young lady did give me — good 
young lady!” said Louis, and he produced the locket. 

‘‘ I declare,” exclaimed Miss Burrage, catching hold 
of it, “’tis Miss Warwick’s locket ! I’m sure of it — 
here’s the motto : I’ve read it, and laughed at it twenty 
times — L’Amie Inconnue.” 

When I heard you all talking just now about that 
description of the young lady in the newspaper, I cude 
not but fancy,” said Clara Hope, that the lady whom 
I saw this morning, must be Miss Warwick.” 

‘^Saw — where?” cried Lady Frances, eagerly. 

At Bristol — at our academy — at Mrs. Porett’s,” said 
Clara ; but, mark me, she is not there now : I do not 
ken where she may be now.” 

‘^Moi je sais! I do know de demoiselle did stop in a 
coach at one house ; I was in de street — I can show you 
de house.” 


46 


MORAL TALES. 


Can you so, my good little fellow? then let us begone 
‘directly,” said Lady Frances. 

‘^‘You’ll excuse me, sister,” said Lady Di. 

‘‘ Excuse you ! / will, but the world will not. You’ll 
be abused, sister — shockingly abused.” 

This assertion made more impression upon Lady Di 
Chillingworth than could have been made either by ar 
gument or entreaty. 

‘‘One really does not, know how to act, people take 
so much notice of every thing that is said and done by 
persons of a certain rank: if you think that I shall be so 
much abused — I absolutely do not know what to say.” 

“But I thought,” interposed Miss Burrage, “that 
Lady Frances was going to take you to the play to-night. 
Miss Hope?” 

“ O, never heed the play — never heed the play, or 
Clara Hope ; never heed taking me to the play : Lady 
Frances is going to do a better thing. Come on, my 
bonny boy,” said she to the little French boy, who was 
following them. 

We must now return to our heroine, whom we left 
on her way to Mrs. Bertrand’s. Mrs. Bertrand kept a 
large confectionary and fruit-shop in Bristol. 

“ Please to walk through this way, ma’am — Miss 
Hodges is above stairs : she shall be apprized directly. — 
Jenny ! run up stairs,” said Mrs. Bertrand to her maid ; 
“run upstairs, and tell Miss Hodges here’s a young 
lady wants to see her in a great hurry. — You’d best sit 
down, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Bertrand to Angelina, 

“ till the girl has been up with the message.” 

“O my Araminta! how my heart beats!” exclaimed 
Miss Warwick. 

“How my mouth waters!” cried Betty Williams, 
looking round at the fruit and confectionaries. 

“ Would you, ma’am, b.e pleased,” said Mrs. Bertrand, ' 
“to take a glass of ice this warm evening? cream-ice or 
water-ice, ma’am? pineapple or strawberry-ice?” As 
she spoke, Mrs. Bertrand held a salver covered with ices 
towards Miss Warwick: but, apparently, she thought 
that it was not consistent with the delicacy of friendship 
to think of eating or drinking when she was thus upon 


ANGELIJVA. 


47 


the eve of her first interview with her Ararainta. Betty 
Williams, who was of a difierent nature from our hero- 
ine, saw the salver recede with excessive surprise and 
regret ; she stretched out her hand after it, and seized a 
glass of raspberry-ice ; but no sooner had she tasted it, 
than she made a frightful face, and let the glass fall, 
exclaiming, 

“ Pless us ! ’tis not as cood as cooseperry fool.” 

Mrs. Bertrand next offered her a cheesecake, which 
Betty ate voraciously. , 

She’s actually a female Sancho Panza,” thought 
Angelina: her own more striking resemblance to the 
female Q^uixote never occurred to our heroine — so blind 
are we to our own failings. 

‘‘Who is the young lady?” whispered the mistress 
of the fruit-shop to Betty Williams, while Miss Warwick 
was walking — we should say pacing — up and down the 
room, in anxious solicitude and evident agitation. 

“ Hur’s a young lady,” replied Betty, stopping to take 
a mouthful of cheesecake between every member of her 
sentence, “a young lady — that has — lost hur” — 

“ Her heart — so I thought.” 

“Hur purse!” said Betty, with an accent which 
showed that she thought this the more serious loss of the 
two. 

“Her purse! that’s bad indeed. You pay for your 
own cheesecake and raspberry-ice, and for the glass that 
you broke?” said Mrs. Bertrand. 

“Put hur has a great deal of money in hur trunk, 1 
pelieve, at Llanwaetur,” said Betty. 

“ Surely Miss Hodges does not know I am here,’ 
cried Miss Warwick — “ her Angelina !” 

“ Ma’am, she’ll be down immediately, I do suppose,’ 
said Mrs. Bertrand. “What was it you pleased to call 
for — angelica. Ma’am, did you say? At present we are 
quite out, I’m ashamed to say, of angelica. Ma’am. — 
Well, child,” continued Mrs. .T3ertrand to her maid, who 
was at this moment seen passing by the back-door of the 
shop in great haste. 

“ Ma’am — anan ?” said the maid, turning back her 
cap from off her ear. 


/ 


48 MORAL TALES. 

Anan! deaf doll! didn’t you hear me tell you to tell 
Miss Hodges a lady wanted to speak to her in a great 
hurry?” ^ 

‘^No Ma’am,” replied the girl, who spoke in the broad 
Somersetshire dialect : I heard you zay, Up to Miss 
Hodges — zoo I thought it was the bottle o’ brandy, and 
zoo I took it alung with the tea-kettle; but I’ll go up 
again now, and zay Miss bes in a hurry az she zays.” 

‘^Brandy!” repeated Miss Warwick, on whom the 
word seemed to make a great impression. 

Pranty, ay, pranly,” repeated Miss Betty Williams ; 
“ our Miss Hodges always takes pranty in her teas at 
Llanwaelur.” 

‘^Brandy! then she can’t be my Araminta.” ' 

O, the very same, and no other ; you are quite right. 
Ma’am,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “ if you mean the same 
that is publishing the novel. Ma’am, — ^ The So- rows of 
Araminta’ — for the reason I know so much about it is, 
that I take in the subscriptions, and distribute the pur- 
posals.” 

Angelina had scarcely time to believe or disbelieve 
what she heard before the maid returned with, “ Mam, 
Mizz Hodges haz hur best love to you. Miss, and please 
to walk up. There be two steps; please to have a care, 
or you’ll break your neck.” 

Before we introduce Angelina to her ‘^unknown 
friend,” we must relate the conversation which was 
actually passing between the amiable Araminta and her 
Orlando, while Miss Warwick was waiting in the fruit- 
shop. — Our readers will be so good as to picture to them- 
selves a woman with a face and figure which seemed to 
have been intended for a man, with a voice and gesture 
capable of setting even man, imperial man,” at defi- 
ance — such was Araminta. She was at this time sitting 
cross-legged in an arm-chair at a tea-table, on which, 
beside the tea equipage, was a medley of things of which 
no prudent tongue or pen would undertake to give a 
correct inventory. At the feet of this fair lady, kneeling 
on one knee, was a thin, subdued, simple-looking Qua- 
ker, of the name of Nathaniel Gazabo. 

“ But now Natty,” said Miss Hodges, in a voice' more 


ANGELINA. 


49 


masculine than her looks, you understand the condi- 
tions : — if I give you my hand, and make you my hus- 
band, it is upon condition that you never contradict any 
of my opinions. Do you 'promise me that?’’ 

Yea, verily,” replied Nat. 

And you promise to leave me entirely at liberty to • 
act, as well as to think, in all things as my own inde- 
pendent understanding shall suggest?” 

Yea, verily,” was the man’s response. 

And you will be guided by me in all things?” 

“ Yea, verily.” 

‘‘ And you will love and admire me all your life as 
much as you do now?” 

‘‘ Yea, verily.” 

‘•'Swear!” said the unconscionable woman. 

“ Nay, verily,” replied the meekest of men, “ I cannot 
swear, my Rachel, being a duaker; but I will affirm.” 

“ Swear, swear!” cried the lady in an imperious tone, 

“ or J wiH never be your Araminta.” 

“ I swear,” said Nat Gazabo, in a timid voice. 

“ Then, Natty, I consent to be Mrs. Hodges Gazabo : 
only remember always to call me your dear Araminta.” 

“ My dear Araminta, thus,” said he, embracing her, 

“ thus let me thank thee, my dear Araminta!” 

It was in the midst of these thanks that the maid in- 
terrupted the well-matched pair with the news that a 
young lady was below who was in a great hurry to see 
Miss Hodges: 

“ Let her come,” said Miss Hodges ; “ I suppose it is 
only one of the Miss Carvers. Don’t stir, Nat ; it will 
vex her to see you kneeling to me : don’t stir, I say” — 

“Where is she? W’here is my Araminta ?” cried Miss 
Warwick, as the maid was trying to open the outer- 
passage door for her, which had a bad lock. 

“ Get up, get up. Natty, and get some fresh water in 
the tea-kettle — quick!” cried Miss Hodges ; and she be- 
gan to clear away some of the varieties of literature, &c., 
which lay scattered about the room. Nat, in obedience 
to her commands, was making his exit with all possible 
speed, when Angelina entered, exclaiming, 

“ My amiable Araminta ! my unknown friend 1” 

E 


50 


MORAL TALES. 


‘‘My Angelina! my charming Angelina!” cried Miss 
Hodges. 

Miss Hodges was not the sort of person our heroine 
expected to see; and to conceal the panic with which 
the first sight of her unknown friend struck her disap 
pointed imagination, she turned back to listen to the 
apologies which Nat Gazabo was pouring forth about 
liis awkwardness and the tea-kettle. 

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear!” cried Miss Hodges, 
with the tone and action of a bad actress who is rehears- 
ing an embrace: “ turn, Angelina, ever dear! — thus, 
thus let us meet to part no more.” 

“ But her voice is so loud,” said Angelina to herself, 

“ and her looks so vulgar, and there is such a smell of 
brandy ! How unlike the elegant delicacy I had expect- 
ed in my unknown friend!” Miss Warwick involun- 
tarily shrank from the stifling embrace. 

“ You are overpowered, my Angelina; lean on me,” 
said her Araminta. 

Nat Gazabo re-entered with the tea-kettle. 

“ Here’s boiling water, and we’ll have fresh tea in a . 
trice — the young lady’s overtired seemingly. Here’s a 
chair. Miss ; here’s a chair,” cried Nat. Miss Warwick 
sank upon a chair: Miss Hodges seated herself beside 
her, continuing to address her in a theatrical tone. 

“ This moment is bliss unutterable ! my kind, my no- 
ble minded Angelina! thus to leave all your friends for 
your Araminta!” Suddenly changing her voice, “Set 
the tea-table, Nat.” 

“Who is this Nat, I wonder?” thought Miss War- 
wick. 

“ W ell, and tell me,” said Miss Hodges, whose atten- 
tion was awkwardly divided between the ceremonies of 
making tea and making speeches — “ and tell me, my 
Angelina — that’s water enough, Nat — and tell me, my 
Angelina, how did you find me out?” 

“ With some difficulty, indeed, my Araminta .”’ Miss 
Warwick could hardly pronounce the words. 

“ So kind, so noble-minded ! ” continued Miss Hodges ; 

“ and did you receive my last letter — three sheets? And 
how did you contrive — Stoop the kettle, do, Nat.” 


ANGELIiVA. 


51 


O, this odious Nat ! how I wish she would send nira 
away thought Miss Warwick. 

“ And tell me, my Araminta, — my Angelina, I mean — 
how did you contrive your elopement; and how did you 
escape from the eye of your aristocratic Argus'? how 
did you escape from all your unfeeling persecutors? 
tell me, tell me all ymur adventures, my Angelina!— 
Butler the toast, Nat,^’ said Miss Hodges, who was cut- 
ting bread and butter, which she did not do with the cele- 
brated grace of Charlotte, in the Sorrows of Werter. 

I’ll tell you all, my Araminta,” whispered Miss 
Warwick, “ when we are by ourselves.” 

‘‘ O, never mind Nat,” whispered Miss Hodges. 

^‘Couldn’t you tell him,” rejoined Miss Warwick, 
“ that he need not wait any longer?” 

Wait, my dear I why, Avhat do you take him for?” 

‘‘Why, is not he your footman?” whispered Ange- 
lina. 

“ My footman ! — Nat !” exclaimed Miss Hodges, 
bursting out a-laughing, “ my Angelina took you for my 
footman.” 

“Good heavens! what is he?” said Angelina in a 
low voice. 

“Verily,” said Nat Gazabo, with a sort of bashful, 
simple laugh, “verily Iain the humblest of her servants.” 

“ And does not my Angelina — spare my delicacy,” 
said Miss Hodges — “ does my Angelina not remember, 
in any of my long letters, the name of — Orlando ? There 
he stands.” 

“ Orlando ! — Is this gentleman your Orlando, of whom 
I have heard so much?” 

“ He ! he ! he!” simpered Nat. “ I am Orlando, of 
whom you have heard so much ; and she” (pointing to 
Miss Hodges) — “ she is to-morrow morning, God will- 
ing, to be Mistress Hodges Gazabo.” 

“Mrs. Hodges Gazabo, my Araminta!” said Ange- 
lina with astonishment which she could not suppress.’’ 

“ Yes, my Angelina : so end ‘ the sorrows of Ara- 
minta’ — Another cup? — do I make the tea too sweet?” 
said Miss Hodges, while Nat handed the bread and but- 
ter to the ladies officiouslv. 

33 


62 


MORAL TALES. 


The man looks like a fool,” thought Miss Warwick. 

Set down the bread and butler, and be quiet, Nat. 
Then, as soon as the wedding is over, we fly, my Ange- 
lina, to our charming cottage in Wales ; — there may we 
bid defiance to the storms of fate — 

“ ‘ The world forgetting, by the world forgot.' ” 

‘‘ That,” said Angelina, ‘ is the blameless vestaPs 
lot;’ — but you forget that you are to be married, my 
Araminla ; and you forget that in your letter of three 
folio sheets, you said not one word to me of this intend- 
ed marriage.” 

‘‘Nay, my dear, blame me not for a want of confi- 
dence, that my heart disclaims,” said Miss Hodges ; 
“ from the context of my letters you must have suspect- 
ed the progress my Orlando had made in my affections ; 
but, indeed, I should not have brought myself to decide 
apparently so precipitately, had it not been for the oppo- 
sition, the persecution of my friends — I was determined 
to show them that 1 know, and can assert, my right to 
think and act, upon all occasions, for myself.” 

Longer, much longer Miss Hodges spoke in the most 
peremptory voice ; but while she was declaiming on her 
favourite topic, her Angelina was “revolving in her al- 
tered mind” the strange things which she had seen and 
heard in the course of the last half-hour; every thing 
appeared to her in a new light: when she compared the 
conversation and conduct of Miss Hodges with the sen- 
timental letters of her Araminta; when she compared 
Orlando in description to Orlando in reality, slfe could 
scarcely believe her senses ; accustomed as she had been 
to elegance of manners, the vulgarity and awkwardness 
of Miss Hodges shocked and disgusted her beyond mea- 
sure. The disorder and — for the words must be said — 
slatternly dirty appearance of her Araminta’s dress, and 
of every thing in her apartment, were such as would 
have made a hell of heaven; and the idea of spending 
her life in a cottage with Mrs. Hodges Gazabo and Nat 
overwhelmed our heroine with the double fear of wretch- 
edness and ridicule. ^ 

“Another cup of tea, my Angelina?” said Miss 


ANGELINA. 


53 


Hodges, when she had finished her tirade against her per- 
secutors — that is to say, her friends. “ Another cup, 
my Angelina? — do — after your journey and fatigue, 
lake another cup.” 

“ No more, 1 thank you.” 

Then reach me that tradegy, Nat — you know” — • 

“ Your own tragedy, is it, my dear?” said he. 

‘^Ah Nat, now! you never can keep a secret,” said 
Miss Hodges. “I wanted to have surprised my An- 
gelina.” 

‘M am surprised!” thought Angelina — “O diow 
much surprised !” 

“ I have a motto for our cottage here somewhere,” 
said Miss Hodges, turning over the leaves of her tragedy 
— but I’ll keep that till to-morrow — since to-morrow’s 
the day sacred to love and friendship.” 

•Nat, by way of showing his joy in a becoming man- 
ner, rubbed his hands, and hummed a tune. His mis- 
tress frowned, and bit her lips j but the signals were 
lost upon him, and he sang out, in an exulting tone — 

“ When the lads of the village so merrily, ah ! 

Sound their tabours, I’ll hand thee along.” 

‘^Fool! dolt! idiot!” cried his Araminta, rising fu- 
rious — out of my sight!” Then, sinking down upon 
the chair, she burst into tears, and threw herself into the 
arms of her pale, astonished Angelina. “ O my Ange- 
lina!” she exclaimed, I am the most ill-matched! 
most unfortunate! most wretched of women !” 

Don’t he frighted. Miss,” said Nat ; she’ll come to 
again presently — ’lis only her ivay.^’ As he spoke, he 
poured out a bumper of brandy, and kneeling, presented 
it to his mistress. “ ’Tis the only thing in life does her 
good,” continued he, “ in these sort of fits.” 

Heavens, what a scene!” said Miss Warwick to 
herself — and the woman so heavy, 1 can scarce sup- 
port her weight — and is this my unknown friend?'^ 

How long Miss Hodges would willingly have con- 
tinued to sob upon Miss Warwick’s shoulder, or how 
long that shoulder could possibly have sustained her 
weight, is a mixed problem in physics and metaphysics, 
which must forever remain unsolved j but suddenly a 


54 


MORAL TALES. 


loud scream was heard. Miss Hodges started up — the 
Joor was thrown open, and Betty Williams rushed 
in, crying, loudly, O shave me, shave me! for the 
love of Cot, shave me, Miss!’^ and pushing by the 
swain, who held the unfinished glass of brandy in his 
hand, she threw herself on her knees at the feet of 
Angelina. 

“ Gracious me!” exclaimed Nat, ‘‘whatever you are, 
you need not push one so.” 

“What now, Betty Williams? is the wench mad or 
drunk?” cried Miss Hodges. 

“ We are to have a mad scene next, I suppose,” said 
Miss Warwick, calmly; “I am prepared for every 
thing after what I have seen.” 

Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wring- 
ing her hands — “ O shave me this once. Miss! ’tis the 
first thing of the kind I ever did, inteet inteet! O, shave 
me this once — I tid not know it was worth so much as 
a shilling, and that T could be hanged, inteet — and I” — 

Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. 
PufFit the milliner, the printer’s devil, and a stern-look- 
ing man, to whom Mrs.. Puffit, as she came in, said, 
pointing to Betty Williams and Miss Warwick, “ There 
they are — do your duly, Mr. Constable : Pll swear to 
my lace.” 

“ And Pll swear to my black thumbs,.” said the 
printer’s devil. “ I saw the lace hanging out of her 
pocket, and there’s the mark of my fingers upon it. 

“Fellow!” cried Miss Pledges, taking the constable 
by the arm, “ this is my apartment, into which no 
minion of the law has a right to enter ; for in England 
every man’s house is his castle.” 

“ I know that as well as you do, Madam!’^ said the 
constable; “but I make it a principle to do nothing 
without a warrant: here’s my warrant.” 

“O shave me! the lace is her’s inteet!” cried Betty 
Williams, pointing to Miss Warwick. “ O, Miss is my 
mistress, inteet” — 

“ Come, Mistress, or Miss, then, you’ll be pleased to 
come along with me,” said the constable, seizing hold 
of Angelina — “ Like mistress, like maid.” 


ANGELINA. 


55 


Villain! unfeeling villain I O unhand my Angelina, 
or I shall die I I shall die !’’ exclaimed Araminta, falling 
into the arms of Nat Gazabo, Avho immediately held the 
replenished glass of brandy to her lips — “ O my Ange- 
lina, my Angelina!” 

Struck with horror at her situation. Miss Warwick 
shrank from the grasp of the constable, and leaned mo- 
tionless on the back of a chair. 

‘‘ Come, my angel, as they call you, I think — the lady 
there has brandy enough, if you want spirits — all the 
fits and faintings in Christendom won’t serve you now. 
I’m used to the tricks o’ the trade — the law must ttike 
its course; and if you can’t walk, I must carry you.” 

“ Touch me at your peril ! I am innocent,” said An- 
gelina. 

^‘Innocent — innocence itself! pure, spotless, injured 
innocence!” cried Miss Hodges. I shall die! I shall 
die! T shall die on the spot! barbarous, barbarous 
villain !” 

While Miss Hodges spoke, the ready Nat poured out 
a fresh glass of that restorative which he always had 
ready for cases of life and death; and she screamed and 
sipped, and sipped and screamed, as the constable took 
up Angelina in his arms and carried her towards the 
door. 

“Mrs. Innocence,” said the man, “you shall see 
who you shall see.” 

Mrs. Puffit opened the door; and, to the utter aston- 
ishment of every bod y present, Lady Diana Chillingworth 
entered the room, followed by Lady Frances Somerset 
and Mrs. Bertrand. The constable set down Angelina. 
Miss Hodges set down the gla.ss of brandy. Mrs. Puffit 
courtesied. Betty Williams stretched out her arms to 
Lady Diana, crying, “ Shave me ! shave me this once ! ” 
Miss Warwick hid her face with her hands. 

“ Only my Valenciennes lace, that has been found in 
that girl’s pocket, and” — said Mrs. Puffit. 

Lady Diana Chillingworth turned away with inde- 
scribable haughtiness, and, addressing herself to her 
sister, said, “ Lady Frances Somerset, you would not, 
I presume, have Lady Diana Chillingworth lend her 

33 * 


MORAL TALES. 


5G 


\ 


countenance to sucli a scene as this — I hope, sister, that 
you are satisfied now.” As she said these words, her 
ladyship walked out of the room. 

‘‘ Never was further from being satisfied in my life,” 
said Lady Frances. 

“ If you look at this, my lady,” said the constable, 
‘holding out the lace, “ you’ll soon be satisfied as to what 
sort of a young lady that is.” 

“'O, you mistake the young lady,” said Mrs. Ber- 
trand, and she whispered to the constable, “ Come away : 
you may be sure you’ll be satisfied — we shall all be 
satisfied, handsomely, all in good time. Don’t let the 
delinquency there on her knees,” added , she aloud, 
pointing to Betty Williams — don’t let the delinquency 
there on her knees escape.” 

‘‘ Come along, mistress,” said the constable, pulling 
up Betty Williams from her knees. But I say the 
law must have its course, if I’m not satisfied.” 

“ O, I am confident,” said Mrs. Puflit the milliner, 

we shall all be satisfied, no doubt; but Lady Di 
Chillingworth knows my Valenciennes lace, and Miss 
Burrage too, for they did me this morning the honour — ” 
\Vill you do me the favour,” interrupted Lady 
Frances Somerset, to leave us, good Mrs. Puffit, for 
the present? Here is some mistake — the less noise we 
make about it the better. You shall be satisfied.” 

*‘0, your ladyship — I’m sure, I’m confident — I 
sha’n’t utter another syllable — nor never would have 
articulated a syllable about the lace (though Valen- 
ciennes, and worth thirty guineas, if it is worth a 
farthing) had I had the least intimacy or suspicion the 
young lady was your la’ship’s protegee. I sha’n’t, at 
any rate, utter another syllable.” 

Mrs. Puffit, having glibly run off this speech, left the 
room, and carried in her train the constable and Betty 
Williams, the printer’s devil, and Mrs. Bertrand, the 
woman of the house. 

Miss Warwick, whose confusion during this whole 
scene was excessive, stood without power to speak or 
move. 

“Thank God, they are gone!” said Lady Frances; 


ANGELINA. 


57 


and she went to Angelina, and taking her hands gently 
from before her face, said in a soothing tone, “Miss 
Warwick, your friend, Lady Frances Somerset, you 
cannot think that she suspects — ” 

“La, dear, no!’^ cried Nat Gazabo, who had now 
sufficiently recovered from his fright and amazement to 
be able to speak: “dear heart! who could go for to 
suspect such a thing? but they made such a bustle and 
noise, they quite flabbergasted me, so maamj on them in 
this small room. Please to sit down, my lady — is there 
any thing I can do?” 

“ If you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a 
few minutes,” said Lady Frances, in a polite, persuasive 
manner — “if you could have the goodness, sir, to leave 
us for a few minutes.” 

Nat, who was not always spoken to by so gentle a 
voice, smiled, bowed, and was retiring, when Miss 
Hodges came forward with an air of defiance : Aristo- 
cratic insolence I” exclaimed she : “stop, Nat — stir not 
a foot, at your peril, at the word of command of any of 
the privileged orders upon earth — stir not a foot, at your 
peril, at the behest of any titled she in the universe! — 
madam, or my lady — or by whatever other name more 
high, more low, you choose to be addressed — this is my 
husband.” 

“ Very probably, madam,” said Lady Frances, with 
an easy calmness which provoked Miss Hodges to a 
louder tone of indignation. 

“ Stir not a foot, at your peril, Nat,” cried she. “ I 
will defend him, I say, madam, against every shadow, 
every penumbra of aristocratic insolence.” 

As you and he think proper, madam,” replied Lady 
Frances. “ ’Tis easy to defend the gentleman against 
shadows.” 

Miss Hodges marched up and down the room with 
her arms folded. Nat stood stock-still. 

“The woman,” whispered Lady Frances to Miss 
Warwick, “is either mad or drunk, or both; at all 
events, we shall be better in another room.” As she 
spoke, she drew Miss Warwick’s arm within hers. 
“ Will you allow aristocratic insolence to pass by you. 


58 


MORAL TALES. 


sir ?” said she to Nat Gazabo, who stood like a statue 
m the doorway — he edged himself aside — 

“And is this your independence of soul, my Ange- 
lina?” cried Araminta, setting her back to the door, so 
as effectually to prevent her from passing — and is this 
your independence of soul, my Angelina, thus tamely 
to submit, to resign yourself — again to your unfeeling, 
proud, prejudiced, intellect-lacking persecutors?” 

“ This lady is my friend, madam,” said Angelina, in 
as firm and tranquil a tone as she could command, for 
she was quite terrified by her Araminta’s violence. 

“ Take your choice, my dear; stay or follow me, as 
you think best,” said Lady Frances. 

“ Your friend !” pursued the oratorical lady, detain- 
ing Miss Warwick with a heavy hand. Do you feel 
the force of the word? Can you feel it, as I once 
thought you could? Your friend ! am not / your friend, 
your best friend, my Angelina 1 your own Araminta, 
your amiable Araminta, your unknoion friend !” 

“ My unknown friend, indeed !” said Angelina. Miss 
Hodges let go her struggling hand, and Miss Warwick 
that instant followed Lady Frances, who, having ef- 
fected her retreat, had by this time gained the staircase. 

“ Gone” cried Miss Hodges ; “then never will I see 
or speak to her more. Thus I whistle her off, and let 
her down the wind to prey at fortune.” 

“Gracious heart! what quarrels,” said Nat, “and 
doings, the night before our wedding day I” 

We leave this well-matched pair to their happy pros- 
pects of conjugal union and equality. 

Lady Frances, who perceived that Miss Warwick 
was scarcely able to suppport herself, led her to a sofa, 
which she luckily saw through the half-open door of a 
drawing-room, at the head of the staircase. 

“ To be taken for a thief! — O, to what have I ex- 
posed myself!” said Miss Warwick. 

“ Sit down, my dear, now we are in a room where 
we need not fear interruption — sit down, and don^ 
tremble like an aspen leaf,” said Lady Frances Somer- 
set, who saw that 'at this moment reproaches would 
have been equally unnecessary and cruel. 


A.VGELINA. 


59 


Unused to be treated with judicious kindness, Ange- 
lina’s heart was deeply touched by it, and she opened 
her whole mind to Lady Frances, with the frankness of 
a young person con>cious of her own folly, not desi- 
rous to apologize or extenuate, but anxious to regain the 
esteem of a friend. 

To be sure, my dear, it was, as you say, rather 
foolish to set out in quest of an unknown friend,'^’ said 
Lady Frances, after listening to the confessions of An- 
gelina. ‘‘ And why, after all, was it necessary to have 
an elopement?” 

“ O, Madam, I am sensible of my folly — I had long 
formed a project of living in a cottage in Wales. Miss 
Burrage described Wales to me as a terrestrial paradise.” 

“ Miss Burrage! then why did she not go to paradise 
along with you ?” said Lady Frances. 

‘‘1 don’t know — she was so much attached to Lady 
Di Chillingworth, she said, she could never think of 
leaving her ; she charged me never to mention the cot- 
tage scheme to Lady Di, who would only laugh at it. 
Indeed Lady Di was almost always out while we were 
in London, or dressing, or at cards, and I could seldom 
speak to her, especially about cottages ; and I wished 
for a friend to whom 1 could open my whole heart, and 
whom I could love and esteem, and should have the 
same tastes and notions with myself.” 

I am sorry that last condition is part of your defini- 
tion of a friend,” said Lady Frances, smiling; ‘‘for I 
will not swear that my notions are the same as yours, 
but yet I think you would have found me as good a 
friend as this Araminta of yours. Was it necessary to 
perfect felicity to have an unknown friend V’ 

“Ah I there was my mistake,” said Miss Warwick.— 
“I had read Araminta’s writings, and they speak so 
charmingly of friendship and felicity, that I thought 

“ ‘Those best can paint them who can feel them most.' ” 

“No uncommon mistake,” said Lady Frances. 

“But I am fully sensible of my folly,” said Angelina. 

“ Then there is no occasion to say any more about it 
at present — to-morrow, as' you like romances, we’ll read 
Arabella, or the Female (iuixoie ; and you shall tell me 


MORAL TALES. 


no 

whioh of all your acquaintance the heroine resembles 
most. And, in - the mean time, as you seem to have 
satisfied your curiosity about your unknown friend, will 
you come home with me?’^ 

“ O, Madam,” said Angelina, with emotion, your 
goodness” — 

“ But we have not time to talk of my goodness yet — 
stay — let me see — yes, it were best that it should be 
known that you are with us as soon as possible — for there 
is a thing, my dear, of which, perhaps, you are not 
fully sensible — of which you are too young to be fully 
sensible — that, to people who have nothing to do or to 
say, scandal is a necessary luxury of life ; and that, by 
such a step as you have taken, you have given room 
enough for scandal-mongers to make you and your 
friends completely miserable.” 

Angelina burst into tears — though a sentimental lady, 
she had not yet acquired the art of bursting into tears 
upon every trilling occasion. Hers were tears of real 
feeling. Lady Frances was glad to see -that she had 
made a sufficient impression upon her mind; but she 
assured Angelina that she did not intend to torment her 
with useless lectures and reproaches. Lady Frances 
Somerset understood the art of giving advice rather 
better than Lady Diana Chillingworth. 

“ / do not mean, my dear,” said Lady Frances, ‘‘ to 
make you miserable for life— but I mean to make an 
impression upon you that may make you prudent and 
happy for life. So don’t cry till you make your eyes so 
red as not to be fit to be seen at the play to-night, where 
they must positively be seen.” 

“ But Lady Diana is below,” said Miss Warwick: 
“ I am ashamed and afraid to see her again.” 

“ It will be difficult, but I hope not impossible, to con- 
vince my sister,” said Lady Frances, “ that you clearly 
understand that you have been a simpleton; but that a 
simpleton of sixteen is more an object of mercy than a 
simpleton of sixty. — So my verdict is — Guilty; — but re- 
commended to mercy.” 

By this mercy Angelina was more touched than she 
could have been by the most severe reproaches. 


ANGELINA. 


61 


CHAPTER V. 

While the preceding conversation was passing. Lady 
Diana Chillingworlh was in Mrs. Bertrand’s fruit-shop, 
occupied with her smelling-bottle and Miss Burrage. 
Clara Hope was there also, and Mrs. Puffit the milliner 
and Mrs. Bertrand, who was assuring her ladyship that 
not a word of the affair about the young lady and the 
lace should go out of her house. 

‘^Your la’ship need not be in the least uneasy,” said 
Mrs. Bertrand, “ for I have satisfied the constable, and 
satisfied everybody; and the constable allows Miss 
Warwick’s name was not mentioned in the warrant; 
and as to the servant girl, she’s gone before the magis- 
trate, who, of course, will send her to the house of cor- 
rection; but that will no ways implicate the young lady, 
and nothing shall transpire from this house detrimental 
to the young lady who is under your la’ship protection. 
And Pll tell your la’ship how'Mrs. Puffit and I have 
settled to tell the story : with your ladyship’s approba- 
tion, I shall say” — 

“ Nothing, if you please,” said her ladyship, with 
more than her usual haughtiness. “The young lady 
to whom you allude is under Lady Frances Somerset’s 
protection, not mine; and whatever you do or say, I 
beg that in this affair the name of Lady Diana Chilling- 
worth may not be used.” 

She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as 
she finished this speech, and walked to the farthest end 
of the long room, followed by the constant flatterer of 
all her humours. Miss Burrage. 

The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console 
themselves for the mortification they had received from 
her ladyship’s pride, and for the insolent forgetfulness of 
her companion, by abusing them both in a low voice. 
Mrs. Bertrand began with, “ Her ladyship’s so touchy, 
and so proud; she’s as high as the moon, and higher.” 

^tOh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so,” 
said Mrs. Puffit; “ but then, to be sure, they have a right 
to be so, if anybody has, for they certainly are real high- 
born people.” 

F 


MORAL TALES. 


But I can’t tolerate to see some people, that aren’t 
no ways born nor entitled to it, give themselves such 
airs as some people do. Now, there’s that Miss Burrage, 
that pretends not to know me, ma’am.” 

And me, ma’am, — just the same. Such provoking 
assurance ; I that knew her from this high.” 

‘‘ On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit. 

“On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” echoed Mrs. 
Bertrand. 

“ So I told her this morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Puffit. 

“ And so I told her this evening, ma’am, when the three 
Miss Herrings came in to give me a call in their way to 
the play ; girls that she used to walk with, ma’am, for 
ever and ever in the green, you know.” 

“Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea 
with, ma’am, when asked, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit. 

“ Well, ma’am,” pursued Mrs. Bertrand, “ here she had 
the impudence to pretend not to know them. She takes 
up her glass, — my Lady Di herself couldn’t have done 
it better, and squeezes up her ugly face this way, pre* 
tending to be near sighted, though she can see as well 
as you or I can.” 

“Such airs! s/ic near-sighted I” said Mrs. Puffit: “what 
will the world come to!” 

“ O, I wish her pride may have a fall,” resumed the 
provoked milliner, as soon as she had breath. dare 
to say now she wouldn’t know her own relations if she 
was to meet them ; Pd lay any wager she would not 
vouchsafe a courtesy to that good old John Barker, the 
friend of her father, you know who gave up to this Miss 
Burrage I don’t know how many hundreds of pounds, 
that were due to him, or else Miss wouldn’t have had a 
farthing in the world; yet now, Pll be bound, she’d for- 
get this as well as St. Augustin’s Back, and wouldn’t 
know John Barker from Abraham ; and I don’t doubt but 
she’d pull out her glass at her aunt Dinah, because she is 
a cheesemonger’s widow.” 

“ O no,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “she couldn’t have the 
baseness to be near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred 
her up, and was all in all to her.” 

Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit- 


I 


ANGELINA. ' 63 

shop walked the very persons of whom she had been 
talking — Dinah Plait and Mr. Barker. 

“Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare!’^ exclaimed Mrs. Ber- 
trand. 

“I never was so glad , to see you, Mrs, Plait and Mr. 

^ Barker, in all my days,’’ said Mrs. Puffit. 

“ Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, 
Mrs. Puffit, 1 don’t know,” said Mr. Barker, laughing ; 
“ but Pm not surprised Dinah Plait should be a welcome 
guest wherever she goes, especially with a purse full of 
guineas in her hand.” 

“Friend Bertrand,” said Dinah Plait,producing a purse 
which she held under her cloak, “ I am come to restore 
this purse to its rightful owner; after a great deal of 
trouble, John Barker (who never thinks it a trouble to 
do good) hath traced her to your house.” 

“ There is a young lady there, to be sure,” said Mrs. 
Bertrand; “ but you can’t see her just at present, for she 
is talking on petticlar business with my Lady Frances 
Somerset above-stairs.” 0 

“ ’Tis well,” said Dinah Plait ; “ I would willingly re- 
store this purse, not to the youijg creature herself, hut to 
some of her friends, — for I fear she is not quite in a right 
state of mind, — if I could see any of the young lady’s 
friends.” 

“ Miss Burrage,” cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice 
so loud that she could no avoid hearing it, “ are not you 
one of the young lady’s friends?” 

“What young lady’s friend?” replied Miss Burrage, 
without stirring from her seat. 

“ Miss Burrage, here’s a purse for a young lady,” said 
Mrs. Puffit. 

“A purse for whom? Where?” said Miss Burrage, 
at last deigning to rise, and come out of her recess. 

“ There, ma’am,” said the milliner. “ Now for her 
glass!” whispered Mrs. Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, 
exactly as it had been predicted. Miss Burrage eyed her 
aunt Dinah through herglass, pretending not to know her. 

“ The purse is not mine,” said she, coolly : “ I know 
nothing of it — nothing.” 

“Hetty !” exclaimed her aunt: but as Miss Burrage 

.34 


64 


MORAL TALES. 


Still eyed her through her glass with unmoved invincible 
assurance, Dinah thought that, however strong the re- 
semblance, site was mistaken. No, it can’t be Hetty. 

I beg pardon. Madam, but I took you for Did not I 

hear you say the name of Burrage, friend Puffit"?” 

“ Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire,” 
said the milliner, with malicious archness. 

One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire : I beg pardon. 
But did you ever see such a likeness, friend Barker, to 
my poor niece, Hetty Burrage 

Miss Burrage who overheard these words, immediately 
turned her back upon her aunt. A grotesque statue of 
starch, — one of your (Quakers, I think they call them- 
selves; Bristol is full of such primitive figures,” said Miss 
Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the re- 
cess and to Lady Di. 

“ So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester,” said Dinah 
Plait, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. “ Though 
Hetty has neglected me so of late, I have a tenderness 
for her ; we cannot but have some for our own relations.” 

Grotesque or not, ’tis a statue that seems to have a 
heart, and a gude one,” said Clara Hope. 

1 wish we could say the same of everybody,” said 
Mrs. Bertrand. 

All this time old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had 
been silent: “Burrage of Dorsetshire!” said he; “ Pll 
soon see whether she be or no ; for Hetty has a wart on 
her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget whom and 
what she pleases.” 

Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, 
followed the young lady to the recess ; and after looking 
her full in the face, exclaimed in a loud voice, Here’s 
the wart! — ’tis Hetty!” 

“ Sir ! — wart! — man ! — Lady Di,” cried Miss Burrage, 
in accents of the utmost distress and vexation. 

Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, 
would by no means relinquish her hand ; but leading, or 
rather pulling her forwards, he went on with barbarous 
steadiness Dinah,” said he, “ ’tis your own niece. 
Hetty, ’tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What, 
struggle— 13urrage of Dorsetshire !” 


ANGELINA. 


. 65 

There certainly,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in 
a solemn tone, is a conspiracy, this night, against my 
poor nerves. These people, among them, will infallibly 
surprise me to death. What is the matter now ? — why 
do you drag the young lady, sir ? She came here with 
me, sir, — with Lady Diana Chillingworth ; and conse- 
quently, she is not a person to be insulted.” 

Insult her !” said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simpli- 
city was not to be baffled or disconcerted, either by the 
cunning of Miss Burrage or by the imposing manner 
and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. “ Insult 
her! why, ’tis she insults usj she won’t know us.” 

How should Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any- 
body here 1” said Lady Diana, looking round, as if upon 
beings of a species different from her own. 

How should she know her own aunt that bred her 
up?” said the invincible John Barker, ‘^‘and me, who 
have had her on my knee a hundred times, giving her 
barley-sugar till she was sick?” 

• Sick ! I am sure you make me sick,” said Lady Diana. 
‘^Sir, that young lady is one of the Barrages of Dorset- 
shire, as good a family as any in England.” 

Madam,” said John Barker, replying in a solemnity 
of tone equal to her ladyship’s, ‘‘ that young lady is one 
of the Barrages of Bristol, drysalters; niece to Dinah 
Plait, who is widow to a man who was, in his time^ as 
honest a cheesemonger as any in England.” 

Miss Burrage ! — My God ! — don’t you speak !” cried 
Lady Diana, in a voice of terror. 

“ The young lady is bashful, my lady, among stran- 
gers,” said Mrs., Bertrand. 

^*^0, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee?” said Dinah 
Plait, with an accent of mixed sorrow and affection ; 

but thou art my niece, and I forgive thee.” 

cheesemonger’s niece!” cried Lady Diana, with 
horror ; how have I been deceived ! But this is the 
consequence of making acquaintance at Buxton, and 
those watering places : I’ve done with her, however. 
Lord bless me ! here comes my sister. Lady Frances ! 
Good heavens! my dear,” continued her ladyship, going 
to meet her sister, and drawing her iiito the recess at 

F 2 


66 


MORAL TALES. 


the farthest end of the room, here are more misfortunes 
— misfortunes without end. What will the world say ? 
Here’s this Miss Burrage, — take no more notice of her, 
sister; she’s an impostor: who do you think she turns 
out to be 7 Daughter to a drysalter, niece to a cheese- 
monger! Only conceive! — a person that has been 
going abcLUl with me everywhere ! — What will the world 
say 7” 

“ That it is very imprudent to have unknown friends, 
my dear,” replied Lady Frances. “ The best thing you 
can possibly do is to say nothing about the matter, and 
to receive this penitent ward of yours without reproaches ; 
for if you talk of her unknown friends, the world will 
certainly talk of yours.” 

Lady Diana drew back with haughtiness when her 
sister offered to put Miss Warwick’s hand into hers; 
but she condescended to say, after an apparent struggle . 
with herself, “I am happy to hear. Miss Warwick, that 
you have returned to your senses. Lady Frances takes 
you under her protection, I. understand ; at which, for all 
our sakes, I rejoice ; and I have only one piece of advice. 
Miss Warwick, to give you — ” 

‘H^eep it till after the play, my dear Diana,” whispered 
Lady Frances : It will have more effect.” 

‘^^The play! — Bless me!” said Lady Diana, ‘^why 
you have contrived to make Miss Warwick fit to be seen, 

I protest. But, after all I have gone through to-night, 
how can I appear in public 7 My dear, this Miss Bur- 
rage’s business has given me such a shock, — such ner- 
vous affections!” 

Nervous affections ! — some people, T do believe have 
none but nervous affections,” thought Lady Frances. 

‘^Permit me,” said Mrs. Dinah Plait, coming up to 
Lady Frances, and presenting Miss Warwick’s purse; 
“ permit me, as thou seemest to be a friend to this young 
lady, to restore to thee her purse, which she left by mis- 
take at my house this forenoon. I hope she is better, 
poor thing.” 

“ She is better, and I thank you for her, madam,” said 
Lady Frances, who was struck with the obliging manner 
and benevolent countenance of Dinah Plait, and who 


ANGELINA. 


67 


did not think herself contaminated by standing in the 
same room with the widow of a cheesemonger. 

‘^Let me thank you myself. Madam, ’ said Angelina; 

I am perfectly in my senses now, I can assure you ; 
and I shall never forget the kindness which you and this 
benevolent gentleman showed me when you thought I 
was in real distress.” 

“ Some people hre more grateful than other people,” 
said Mrs. Puffit, looking at Miss Burrage, who in mor- 
tified, sullen silence, followed the aunt and the benefac- 
tor of whom she was ashamed, and who had reason to 
be ashamed of her. 

We do not imagine that our readers can be much in- 
terested for a yoUng lady who was such a compound 
of pride and meanness; we shall therefore only add, 
that her future life was spent at St. Augustin’s Back, 
where she made herself at once as ridiculous and as un- 
happy as she deserved to be. 

As for our heroine, under ihe friendly and judicious 
care of Lady Frances Somerset, she acquired that which 
is more useful to the possessor than genius — good sense. 
Instead of rambling over the world in search of an un- 
known friend, she attached herself to those of whose 
worth she received proofs more convincing than a letter 
of three folio sheets, stuffed with sentimental nonsense. 
In short, we have now, in the name of Angelina War- 
wick, the pleasure to assure all those whorh it may con- 
cern, that it is possible for a youn^ lady of sixteen to 
cure herself of the affectation of sensibility, and the folly 
of romance. 


34 






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THE 


GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robes- 
pierre was Mad. de Rosier, a lady of good" family, ex- 
cellent understanding, and most amiable character. Her 
husband, and her only son, a promising young man of 
about fourteen, were dragged to the horrid prison of the 
Conciergerie, and their names soon afterward appeared 
in the list of those who fell a sacrifice to the tyrant’s 
cruelty. By the assistance of a faithful domestic. Mad. 
de Rosier, who was destined to be the next victim, 
escaped from France, and took refuge in England — 
England! that generous country which, in favour of the 
unfortunate, forgets her national prejudices, and to whom, 
in their utmost need, even her ‘^natural enemies'’ fly for 
protection. English travellers have sometimes been 
accused of forgetting the civilities which they receive in 
foreign countries ; but their conduct towards the French 
emigrants has sufficiently demonstrated the injustice of 
this reproach. 

Mad. de Rosier had reason to be pleased by the deli- 
cacy of several families of distinction in London, who 
offered her their services under the name of gratitude ; 
but she was incapable of encroaching upon the kindness 
of her friends. Misfortune had not extinguished the 
energy of her mind, and she still possessed the power 
of maintaining herself honourably by her own exertions. 
Her character and her abilities being well known, she 
easily procured recommendations as a preceptress. Many 
ladies anxiously desired to engage such a governess for 
their children, but Mrs. Harcourt had the good fortune 
to obtain the preference. 

Mrs. Harcourt was a widow, who had been a very fine 

71 


72 


MORAL TALES. 


woman, and continued to be a very fine lady; she had 
good abilities, but, as she lived in a constant round of 
dissipation, she had not time to cultivate her under- 
standing, nor to attend to the education of her family; 
and she had satisfied her conscience by procuring for her 
daughters a fashionable governess and expensive masters. 
The governess whose place Mad. de Rosier was now to 
supply, had quilted her pupils to go abroad with a lady 
of quality, and Mrs. Harcourt knew enough of the world 
to bear her loss without emotion; — she however stayed 
at home one whole evening, to receive Mad. de Rosier, 
and to introduce her to her pupils. Mrs. Harcourt had 
three daughters and a son — Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, 
and Herbert. Isabella was about fourteen ; her counte- 
nance was intelligent, but rather too expressive of confi- 
dence in her own capacity, for she had, from her infancy, 
been taught to believe that she was a genius. Her 
memory had been too much cultivated; she had learned 
languages with facility, and had been taught to set a 
very high value upon her knowledge of history and 
chronology. Her tem]:^r had been hurt by flattery, yet 
she was capable of feeling all the generous passions. 

Matilda was a year younger than Isabella; she was 
handsome, but her countenance, at first view, gave the 
idea of hopeless indolence ; she did not learn the French 
and Italian irregular verbs by rote as expeditiously as 
her sisterr and her impatient preceptress pronounced, 
with an irrevocable nod, that Miss Matilda was no genius. 
The phrase was quickly caught by her masters, so that 
Matilda, undervalued even by her sister, lost all confi- 
dence in herself, and, with the hope of success, lost the 
wish for exertion. Her attention gradually turned to 
dress and personal accomplishments ; not that she was 
vain of her beauty, but she had more hopes of pleasing 
by the graces of her person than of her mind. The 
timid, anxious blush which Mad. de Rosier observed to 
vary in Matilda’s countenance, when she spoke to those 
for whom she felt affection, convinced this lady that, if 
Matilda were no genius, it must have been the fault of 
her education. On sensibility all that is called genius, 
perhaps, originally depends : those who are capable of 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


73 


feeling a strong degree of pain and pleasure may surely 
be excited to great and persevering exertion, by calling 
the proper motives into action. 

Favoretta, the youngest daughter, was about six years 
old. At this age, the habits that constitute character 
are not formed, and it is therefore absurd to speak of 
the character of a child of six years old. Favoretta had 
been from her birth the plaything of her mother and of 
her mother’s wailing-maid. She was always produced 
when Mrs. Harcourt had company, to be admired and 
caressed by the fashionable circle ; her ringlets and her 
lively nonsense were the never-failing means of attract- 
ing attention from visiters. In the drawing-room, 
Favoretta, consequently, was happy, always in high 
spirits, and the picture of good-humour; but, change 
the scene, and Favoretta no longer appeared the same 
person: when alone, she was idle and spiritless; when 
with her maid, or with her brother and sisters, pettish 
and capricious. Her usual play-fellow was Herbert, but 
their plays regularly ended in quarrels — quarrels in which 
both parties were commonly in the wrong, though the 
whole of the blame necessarily fell upon Herbert, for 
Herbert was neither caressing nor caressed. Mrs. 
Grace, the waiting-maid, pronounced him to be the 
plague of her life, and prophesied evil of him, because, 
as she averred, if she combed his hair a hundred times 
a day, it would never be fit to be seen ; besides this, she 
declared “there was no managing to keep him out of 
mischief ;” and he was so “ thick-headed at his book,” 
that Mrs. Grace, on wl^om the task of teaching him his 
alphabet had, during the negligent reign of the late go- 
verness, devolved, affirmed that he would never learn to 
read like any other young gentleman.* Whether the 
zeal of Mrs. Grace for his literary progress were of ser- 
vice to his understanding may be doubted ; there could 
be no doubt of its effect upon his temper; a sullen gloom 
overspread Herbert’s countenance whenever the shrill 
call of “ Come and say your task, Master Herbert!” was 
heard; and the continual use of the imperative mood— 
“ Let that alone, do. Master Herbert !” — “ Don’t make 
a racket. Master Herbert!” — “ Do hold your tongue and 


74 


MORAL TALES. 


sit Still where I bid you. Master Herbert!’’ operated so 
powerfully upon this young gentle*man, that, at eight 
years old, he partly fulfilled his tormentor’s prophecies, 
for he became a Ihtle surly rebel, who took pleasure in 
doing exactly the contrary to every thing that he was 
desired to do, and who took pride in opposing his powers 
of endurance to the force of punishment. His situation 
was scarcely more agreeable in the drawing-room than 
in the nursery, for his mother usually announced him to 
the company by the appropriate appellation of Rough- 
liead ,• and Herbert Rouglihead, being assailed at his en- 
trance into the room by a variety of petty reproaches 
and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth appearance, 
became bashful and awkward, averse to polite society, 
and prone to the less fastidious company of servants in 
the stable and the kitchen. Mrs. Harcourt absolutely 
forbade his intercourse with the postillions, though she 
did not think it necessary to be so strict in her injunc- 
tions as to the butler and footman j because, argued she, 

children will get to the servants when one’s from 
home, and it is best that they should be with such of 
them as one can trust — now Stephen is quite a person 
one can entirely depend upon, and he has been so long 
in the family, the children are quite used to him, and 
safe with him.” 

How many mothers have a Stephen, on whom they 
can entirely depend I 

Mrs. Jdarcourt, with politeness, which in this instance 
supplied the place of good sense, invested Mad. de Ro- 
sier with full powers as the preceptress of her children, 
except as to their religious education ; she stipulated that 
Catholic tenets should not be instilled into them. To 
this Mad. de Rosier replied, ‘‘ that children usually fol- 
low the religion of their parents, and that proselytes sel- 
dom do honour to their conversion ; that were she, on 
the other hand, to attempt to promote her pupils’ belief 
in the religion of their country, her utmost powers could 
add nothing to the force of public relij^ious instruction, 
and to the arguments of those books which are necessa- 
rily put into the hands of every well educated person.” 

With these opinions. Mad. de Rosier readily promised 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERXESsT 75 

to abstain from all direct or indirect interference in the 
religious instruction of her pupils. Mrs. Harcourt then 
introduced her to them as “ a friend, in whom she had 
entire confidence, and whom she hoped and believed 
they would make it their study to please.’^ 

While the ceremonies of the introduction were going 
on, Herbert kept himself aloof, and with his whip sus- 
pended over the stick on which he was riding, eyed Mad. 
de Rosier with no friendly aspect : however, when she 
held out her hand to him, and when he heard the en- 
couraging tone of her voice, he approached, held his 
whip fast in his right hand, but very cordially gave the 
lady his left to shake. 

Are you to be my governess said he : you won’t 
give me very long tasks, will you 

Favoretta, my dear, ^what has detained you so long?” 
cried Mrs. Harcourt, as the door opened, and as Favo- 
retta, with her hair in nice order, was ushered into the 
room by Mrs. Grace. The little girl ran up to Mad. de 
Rosier, and, with the most caressing freedom, cried — 
^‘Will you love me? I have not my red shoes on 
t,'> day?” 

While Mad. de Rosier assured Favoretta that the 
want of the red shoes would not diminish her merit, Matil- 
da whispered to Isabella, “Mourning is very becoming 
to her, though she is not fair and Isabella, with a look 
of absence, replied, “ But she speaks English amazing- 
ly well for a French woman.” 

Mad. de Rosier did speak English remarkably well j 
she had spent some years in England in her early youth, 
and perhaps the effect of her conversation Avas height- 
ened by an air of foreign novelty. As she was not hack- 
neyed in the common language of conversation, her ideas 
were expressed in select and accurate terms, so that her 
thoughts appeared original, as well as just. 

Isabella, who was fond of talents, and yet fonder of 
novelty, was charmed the first evening with her new 
friend, more especially as she perceived that her abili- 
ties had not escaped Mad. de Rosier. She displayed all 
her little treasures of literature, but Avas surprised to ob- 
serve that, though every shining thing she said was 


76 


MORAL TALES. 


taken notice of, nothing dazzled the eyes of her judge; 
gradually her desire to talk subsided, and she felt some 
curiosity to hear. She experienced the new pleasure of 
conversing with a person whom she perceived to be her 
superior in understanding, and whose superiority she 
could admire, without any mixture of envy. 

“Then,’’ said she, pausing one day, after having suc- 
cessfully enumerated the dates of the reigns of all the 
English kings, “ I suppose you have something in 
French, like our . Gray’s Memoria Technica, or else you 
never could have such a prodigious quantity of dates in 
your head. Had you as much knowledge of chronology 
and history when you were of my age as — as — ” 

“As you have?’’ said Mad. de Rosier: “I do not 
know whether I had at your age, but I can assure you 
that I have not now.” 

“Nay,” replied Isabella, with an incredulous smile, 
“ but you only say that from modesty.” 

“ From vanity, more likely.” 

^‘Vanity! impossible — you don’t understand me.” 

“ Pardon me, but you do not understand me.” 

“ A person,” cried Isabella, “ can’t, surely, be vain — 
what we, in English, call vain — o^not remembering any 
thing.” 

“ Is it then, impossible that a person should be what 
you in English call vain of not remembering what is use- 
less, ? I dare say you can tell me the name of that wise 
man who prayed for the art of forgetting.” 

“ No, indeed, I don’t know his name ! I never heard 
of him before: was he a Grecian, or a Roman, or an 
Englishman? can’t you recollect his name? what does 
it begin with ?” 

“ I do not wish, either for your sake or my own, to 
remember the name; let us content ourselves with the 
wise man’s sense, whether he were a Grecian, a Ro- 
man, or an Englishman : even the first letter of his name 
might be left among the useless things — might it not?” 

“ But,” replied Isabella, a little piqued, “ I do not know 
what you call useless.” 

“ Those of which you can make no use,” said Mad. 
de Rosier, with simplicity. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


77 


You don’t mean, though, all the names, and dates, 
and kings, and Roman emperors, and all the remarkable 
events that I have learned by heart?” 

“ It is useful, I allow,” replied Mad. de Rosier, to 
know by heart the names of the English kings and Ro- 
man emperors, and to remember the dates of their 
reigns, otherwise we should be obliged, whenever we 
wanted them, to search in the books in which they are 
to be found, and that wastes time.” 

“Wastes time — yes; but, what’s worse,” said Isa- 
bella, a person looks so awkward and foolish in com- 
pany who does not know these things — things that eve- 
ry body knows.” 

And that everybody is supposed to know,” added 
Mad. de Rosier. 

A person,” continued Isabella, “ could make no 
figure in conversation, you know, among well-informed 
people, if she didn’t know these things.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ nor could she 
make a figure among well-informed people, by telling 
them what, as you observed just now, everybody knows.” 

“But I do not mean,” said Isabella, after a mortified 
pause, “that everybody knows iht remarkable events, 
though they may have learned the reigns of the kings by 
heart; for I assure you, the other day I found it a great 
advantage, when somebody was talking about the pow- 
der-tax, to be able to tell, in a room full of company, 
that powder for the hair was first introduced into Eng- 
land in the year 1614; and that potatoes, which, very 
luckily for me, were next to powder in “ the Tablet of 
Memory;” were first brought to England in the year 
1586. And the very same eventing, when mamma was 
showing some pretty coloured note-paper, which she 
had just got, I had an opportunity of saying that white 
paper was first made in England in the year 1587 ; and 
a gentleman made me a bow, and said he would give the 
world for my memory. So you see that these, at least, are 
not to be counted among the useless things — are they?” 

“Certainly not,” replied Mad. de Rosier: “we can 
form some idea of the civilization of a country at any 
period, by knowing that such a frivolous luxury as pow 


78 


MORAL TALES. 


(ler was then first introduced : trifles become matters of 
importance to those who have the good sense to know 
how to make them of use j and as for paper, that and 
the art of printing are so intimately connected — ’’ 

‘‘ Ah !” interrupted Isabella, ‘‘if they had asked me, I 
could have told them whdii the first printing-press was 
established in Westminster Abbey — in 1494.’’ 

“And paper was made in England?” 

“Have you forgot so soon ! — in 1587.” 

“ It is well worth remarking,” said Mad. de Rosier, 
“ that literature in England must have, at that time, 
made but a very slow progress, since a hundred years 
had elapsed between the establishing of your printing- 
press, and the making of your white paper ; I allow 
these things are not useless facts.” 

“ That never struck me before,” said Isabella ingenu- 
ously ; “ I only remembered these things to repeat in 
conversation.” 

Here Mad. de Rosier, pleased to observe that her pu- 
pil had caught an idea that was new to her, dropped the 
conversation, and left Isabella to apply what had passed. 
— Active and ingenious young people should have much 
left to their own intelligent exertions, and to their own 
candour.” 

Matilda, the second daughter, was at first pleased with 
Mad. de Rosier, because she looked well in mourning; 
and afterward she became interested for her, from hear- 
ing the history of her misfortunes, of which Mad. de Ro- 
sier, one evening, gave her a simple, pathetic account. 
Matilda was particularly touched by the account of the 
early death of this lady’s beautiful and accomplished 
daughter ; she dwelt upon every circumstance, and, 
with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions. 

“ I think I can form a perfect idea of her now,” said 
Matilda, after she had inquired concerning the colour of 
her hair, of her eyes, her complexion, her height, her 
voice, her manners, and her dress — “ I think I have a 
perfect idea of her now.” 

“Oh no !” said Mad. de Rosier, with a sigh ; “you 
cannot forhi a perfect idea of my Rosalie from any of 
these things ; she was handsome and graceful: but it 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


79 


was not her person — it was her mind/’ said the mo- 
ther, with a faltering voice: her voice had, till this in- 
stant, been steady and composed.” 

I beg your pardon — I will ask you no more ques- 
tions,” said Matilda. 

My love,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ ask me as many 
as you please — 1 like to think of her — I may now speak 
of her without vanity — her character would have pleas- 
ed you.” 

“ I am sure it would,” said Matilda : do you think 
she would have liked me or Isabella the best?” 

She would have liked each of you for your different 
good qualities, I think ; she would not have made her 
love an object of competition, or the cause of jealousy 
between two sisters ; she could make herself sufficiently 
beloved, without stooping to any such mean arts. She 
had two friends who loved her tenderly ; they knew that 
she was perfectly sincere, and that she would not flatter 
either of them — you know that is only childish affection 
which is without esteem. Rosalie was esteemed autant 
qu’aimcey 

How I should have liked such a friend ! but I am 
afraid she would have been so much my superior, she 
would have despised me — Isabella would have had all 
her conversation, because she knows so much, and I 
know nothing!” 

‘‘If you know that you know nothing,” said Mad. de 
Rosier, with an encouraging smile, “ you know as much 
as the wisest of men. When the oracle pronounced 
Socrates to be the wisest of men, he explained it by ob- 
serving, ‘ that he knew himself to be ignorant, while 
other men,’ said he, ‘ believing that they know every 
thing, are not likely to improve.’ ” 

“ Then you think 1 am likely to improve ?” said Ma- 
tilda, with a look of doubtful hope. 

“ Certainly,” said Mad. de Rosier ; “ if you exert your- 
self, you may be any thing you please.”- 

Not any thing 1 please, for I should please to be as 
clever, and as good, and as amiable, and as estimable 
too, as your Rosalie — but that’s impossible. Tell me, 
however, what she was at my age — and what sort of 


80 


MORAL TALES, 


things she used to do and say — and what books she 
read — and how she employed herself from morning till 
night.” 

That must be for to-morrow,” said Mad. de Rosier ; 
must now show Herbert the book of prints that he 
’wanted to see.” 

It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to 
look into a book. Mad. de Rosier had taken him en- 
tirely out of the hands of Mrs. Grace, and finding that 
his painful associations with the sight of the syllables in 
his dog’s-eared spelling-book could not immediately be 
conquered, she prudently resolved to cultivate his pow- 
ers of attention upon other subjects, and not to return to 
syllabic difficulties until the young gentleman should 
have forgotten his literary misfortunes, and acquired 
sufficient energy and patience to ensure success. 

‘Ht is of little consequence,” said she, “ whether the 
boy read a year sooner or later ; but it is of gi'eat con- 
sequence that he should love literature.” 

Certainly,” said Mrs. Harcourt, to whom this obser- 
vation was addressed ; ‘‘ I am sure you will manage all 
those things properly — I leave him entirely to you — 
Grace quite gives him up : if he read by the time we 
must think of sending him to school I shall be satisfied 
— only keep him out of my way,” added she, laughing, 

when he is stammering over that unfortunate spelling- 
book, for I don’t pretend to be gifted with the patience 
of Job.” 

“ Have you any objection,” said Mad. de Rosier, "to 
my buying for him some new toys ?” 

" None in the world — buy any thing you will — do any 
thing you please — I give you carte-blanche,” said Mrs. 
Harcourt. 

After Mad. de Rosier had been some time at Mrs. Har- 
court’s, and had carefully studied the characters, or, 
more properly speaking, the habits of all her pupils, she 
took them with her one morning to a large toy-shop, or 
rather warehouse for toys, which had been lately opened 
under the direction of an ingenious gentleman, 'who had 
employed proper workmen to execute rational toys for 
the rising generation. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


81 


When Herbert entered the rational toy-shop/’ he 
looked all around, and, with an air of disappointment, 
exclaimed, “ Why, I see neither whips nor horses ! nor 
phaetons, nor coaches!’’ — ‘^Nor dressed dolls!” said 
Favoretta, in a reproachful tone; ‘‘nor baby houses !” — 
“ Nor soldiers, nor a drum ! ” continued Herbert. — “ I am 
sure I never saw such a toy-shop,” said Favoretta; “I 
expected the finest things that ever were seen, because 
it was such a new great shop, and here are nothing but 
vulgar-looking things — great carts and wheelbarrows, 
and things fit for orange-women’s daughters, I think.” 

This sally of wit was not admired as much as it would 
have been by Favoretta’s flatterers in her mother’s draw- 
ing-room : her brother seized upon the very 'cart which 
she had abused^ and, dragging it about the room with 
noisy joy, declared he had found out that it was better 
than a coach and six that would hold nothing; and he 
was even satisfied without horses, because he reflected 
that he could be the best horse himself ; and that wooden 
horses, after all, cannot gallop, and they never mind if 
you whip them ever so much; “ You must drag them 
along all the time, though you make believe,’^ said Her- 
bert, “ that they draw the coach of themselves ; if one 
gives them the least push they tumble down on their 
sides, and one must turn back, for ever and ever, to 
set them up upon their wooden legs again. I don’t like 
make-believe horses ; I had rather be both man and horse 
for myself.” Then, whipping himself, he galloped away, 
pleased with his centaur character. 

When the little boy in Sacontala is offered for a play- 
thing “apeacoc/c of earthenware, paintedwithrichcoloursf 
he answers, “ 1 shall like the peacock if it can run and jly 
— not else.’^ The Indian drama of Sacontala was written 
many centuries ago. Notwithstanding it has so long 
been observed that children dislike useless, motionless, 
playthings, it is but of late that more rational toys have 
been devised for their amusements. 

While Herbert’s cart rolled on, Favoretta viewed it 
with scornful eyes; but at length, cured by the neglect 
of the spectators of this fit of disdain, she condescended 
to be pleased, and spied a few things worthy of her no- 


82 


MORAL TALES. 


tice. Bilboquets, battledores, and shuttlecocks she ac- 
knowledged were no bad things. And pray,’^said she, 
“^what are those pretty little baskets. Mad. de Rosier? 
And those others, which look as if they were but just 
begun ? And what are those strings that look like mam- 
ma’s bell-cords ; and is that a thing for making laces, 
such as Grace laces me with ? And what are those 
cabinets with little drawers for?” 

Mad. de Rosier had taken notice of these little cabinets 
— they were for young mineralogists; she was also 
tempted by a botanical apparatus ; but as her pupils were 
not immediately going into the country, where flowers 
could be procured, she was forced to*content herself with 
such things as could afford them employment in town. 
The making of baskets, of bell-ropes, and of cords for 
window- curtains were occupations in which, she thought, 
they might successfully apply themselves. The mate- 
rials for these little manufactures were here ready pre- 
pared ; and only such difficulties were left as children 
love to conquer. The materials for the baskets, and a 
little magnifying glass which Favoretta wished to have, 
were just packed up in a basket which was to serve for a 
model, when Herbert’s voice was heard at the other end 
of the shop : he was exclaiming in an impatient tone, “ I 
must and I will eat them, I say.” He had crept under 
the counter, and, unperceived by the busy shopman, had 
dragged out of a pigeon-hole near the ground a parcel 
wrapped up in brown paper : he had seated himself upon 
the ground with his back to the company, and with pa- 
tience worthy of a better object at length untied the dif- 
ficult knot, pulled off the string, and opened the parcel. 
Within the brown paper there appeared a number of little 
packets, curiously folded in paper . of a light brown. 
Herbert opened one of these, and finding that it contained 
a number of little round things which looked like com- 
fits, he raised the paper to his mouth, which opened wide 
to receive them. The shopman, stopping his arm, as- 
sured him that they were “ not good to eat but Herbert 
replied in the angry tone which caught Mad. de Rosier’s 
ear. ‘‘They are the seeds of radishes, my dear,” said 
she : “ if they be sown in the ground they will become 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


83 


radishes ; then they will be fit to eat, but not till then. 
Taste them now, and try.’’ He willingly obeyed; but 
put the seeds very quickly out of his mouth, when he 
found that they were not sweet. He then said that he 
wished he might have them, that he might sow them in 
the little garden behind his mother’s house, that they 
might be fit to eat some time or other.” 

Mad. de Rosier bought the radish-seeds, and ordered a 
little spade, a hoe, and a watering-pot, to be sent home 
for him. 

Herbert’s face brightened with joy : he was surprised 
to find that any of his requests were granted, because 
Grace had regularly reproved him for being troublesome 
whenever he asked for any thing : hence he had learned 
to have recourse to force or fraud to obtain his objects. 
He ventured now to hold Mad. de Rosier by the gown : 

Stay a little longer,” said he ; want to look at every 
thing his curiosity dilated with his hopes. 

When Mad. Rosier complied with his request to 

stay a little longer,” he had even the politeness to push 
a stool towards her, saying, You’d better sit down; 
you will be tired of standing, as some people say they 
are ;. but I’m not one of them. Tell ’em to give me down 
that wonderful thing, that I may see what it is, will you ?” 

The wonderful thing which had caught Herbert’s at- 
tention was a dry printing press. Mad. de Rosier was 
glad to procure this little machine for Herbert, for she 
hoped that the new associations of pleasure which he 
would form with the types in the little compositors stick 
would efface the painful remembrance of his early diffi- 
culties with the syllables in the spelling-book. She also 
purchased a box of models of common furniture, which 
were made to take to pieces, and to be put together 
again, and on which the names of all the parts were 
printed. A number of other useful toys tempted her, but 
she determined not to be too profuse : she did not wish 
to purchase the love of her little pupils by presents ; her 
object was to provide them with independent occupa- 
tions : to create a taste for industry without the dan- 
gerous excitation of continual variety. 

Isabella was delighted with the idea of filling up a small 


84 


MORAL TALES. 


biographical chart, which resembled Priestley’s ; she was 
impatient also to draw the map of the world upon a small 
silk balloon, which could be Med with common air, or 
folded up flat at pleasure. 

Matilda, after much hesitation, said she had decided 
her mind, just as they were going out of the shop. She 
chose a small loom for weaving riband and tape, which 
Isabella admired, because she remembered to have seen 
it described in “ Townsend’s Travels but before the 
man could put up the loom for Matilda, she begged to 
have a little machine for drawing in perspective, because 
the person who showed it assured her that it required 
no sort of genius to draw perfectly well in perspective 
with this instrument. 

In their way home Mad. de Rosier stopped the carriage 
at a circulating library. Are you going to ask for the 
novel we were talking of yesterday V’ cried Matilda. 

A novel!” said Isabella, contemptuously; ‘‘'no, I 
dare say Mad. de Rosier is not a novel reader.” 

“ Zeluco, Sir, if you please,” said Mad. de Rosier. 
" You see, Isabella, notwithstanding the danger of for- 
feiting your good opinion, I have dared to ask for a 
novel.” 

“ Well, I always understood, I am sure,” replied Isa- 
bella, disdainfully, “ that noiie but trifling, silly people 
were novel readers.” 

“Were readers of trifling, silly novels, perhaps you 
mean,” answered Mad. de Rosier, with temper; “ but I 
flatter myself you will not find Zeluco either trifling or 
silly.” 

“No, not Zeluco, to be sure,” said Isabella, recollect- 
ing herself; “ for now I remember Mr. Gibbon, the great 
historian mentions Zeluco in one of his letters ; he says 
it is the best philosophical romance of the age. I par- 
ticularly remember that, because somebody had been 
talking of Zeluco the very day I was reading that letter ; 
and I asked my governess to get it for me, but she said 
it was a novel ; however, Mr. Gibbon calls it a philo- 
sophical romance.” 

“ The name,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ will not make 
such difference to ifs; but I agree with you in thinking, 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


85 


that as people who cannot judge for themselves are apt 
to be misled by names, it would be advanta-geous to in- 
vent some new name for philosophical novels, that they 
may no longer be contraband goods — that they may not 
be confounded with the trifling, silly productions for 
which you have so just a disdain.’’ 

^‘Now, Ma’am, will you ask,” cried Herbert, as the 
carriage stopped at his mother’s door, will you ask 
whether the man has brought home my spade and the 
watering-pot? I know you don’t like that I should go 
to the servants for what I want ; but I’m in a great hurry 
for the spade, because I want to dig the bed for my 
radishes before night: I’ve got my seeds safe in my 
hand.” 

Mad. de Rosier, much pleased by this instance of 
obedience in her impatient pupil, instantly inquired for 
what he wanted, to convince him that it was possible he 
could have his wishes gratified by a person who was not 
an inhabitant of the stable or the kitchen. Isabella might 
have registered it in her list of remarkable events, that 
Herbert, this day, was not seen with the butler, the foot- 
man, or the coachman. Mad. be Rosier, who was aware 
of the force of habit, and who thought that no evil could 
be greater than that of hazarding the integrity of her 
little pupils, did not exact from them any promise of ab- 
staining fro^ the company of the servants, with whom 
they had been accustomed to converse ; but she had pro- 
vided the children with occupations, that they nl^ht not 
be tempted by idleness to seek for improper companions ; 
and by interesting herself with unaffected good-nature 
in their amusements, she endeavoured to give them a 
taste for the sympathy of their superiors in knowledge, 
instead of a desire for the flattery of inferiors. She ar- 
ranged their occupations in such a manner, that without 
watching them every instant, she might know what they 
were doing, and where they were ; and she showed so 
much readiness to procure for them any thing that was 
reasonable, that they found it the shortest method to ad- 
dress their petitions to her in the first instance. Children 
will necessarily delight in the company of those who 
make them happy : Mad. de Rosier knew how to make 

H 


86 


MORAL TALES. 


her pupils contented, by exciting them to employments 
in which they felt that they were successful. 

“Mamma! mamma! dear mamma!” cried Favoretta . 
running into the hall, and stopping Mrs. Harcourt, who 
was dressed, and going out to dinner, “do come into the 
parlour, to look at my basket, my beautiful basket, that 
I am making all myself.” “And do, mother, or some 
of ye, come out into the garden, and see the bed that Pve 
dug, with my own hands, for my radishes. — Pm as hot 
as fire, I know,” said Herbert pushing his hat back from 
his forehead. 

“O! don’t come near me with the watering-pot in 
your hand,” said Mrs. Plarcourt, shrinking back, and 
looking at Herbert’s hands, which were not as white as 
her own. 

“ Thfe carriage is but just come to the door, Ma’am,” 
said Isabella, who next appeared in the hall ; “ I only 
want you for one instant, to show you something that 
is to hang up in your dressing-room, when I have fin- 
ished it, mamma ; it is really b^eaUtiful.” 

“Well, don’t keep me long,” said Mrs. Harcourt, 
“ for, indeed, I am too late already.” 

“O, no! indeed you will not be too late, mamma — 
only look at my basket,” said Favoretta, gently pulling 
her mother by the hand into the parlour. — Isabella 
pointed to her silk globe, which was suspended in the 
window, and, taking up her camel-hair pencil, cried, 
“ Only look. Ma’am, how nicely I have traced the Rhine, 
the Po, the Elbe, and the Danube; you see I have not 
finished Europe; it will be quite another looking thing 
when Asia, Africa, and America are done, and when the 
colours are quite dry.” 

“ Now, Isabella, pray let her look at my basket,” cried 
the eager Favoretta, holding up the scarcely begun 
basket; “I will do a row to show you how it is done;” 
and the little girl, with busy fingers, began to weave. 
The ingenious and delicate appearance of the work, and 
the happy countenance of the little workwoman, fixed 
the mother’s pleased attention, and she, for a moment, 
forgot that her carriage was waiting. 

“The carriage is at the door. Ma’am,” said the footman 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


87 


I must be gone ! ” cried Mrs. Harcourt, starting from 
her revery. What am I doing here ? I ought to have 
been away this half-hour.— Matilda !— why is she not 
among you 

Matilda, apart from the busy company, was reading 
with so much earnestness, that her mother called twice 
before she looked up. 

How happy you all look,” continued Mrs. Harcourt; 

and I am going to one of those terrible g7'eat dinners 
— I sha’n’i eat one morsel : then cards all night, which I 
hate as much as you do, Isabella — pity me. Mad. de Ro- 
sier! — Good-by, happy creatures!” — and with sonre 
real, and some affected reluctance, Mrs. Harcourt de 
parted. 

It is easy to make children happy, for one evening, 
with new toys and new employments ; but the difficulty 
is to continue the pleasure of occupation after it has lost 
its novelty : the power of habit may well supply the 
place of the charm of novelty. Mad. de Rosier exerted 
herself, for some weeks, to invent occupations for her 
pupils, that she might induce in their minds a love for 
industry ; and when they had tasted the pleasure and 
formed the habit of doing something, she now and then 
suffered them to experience the misery of having nothing 
to do. The state of ennui, when contrasted with that 
of pleasurable mental or bodily activity, becomes odious 
and insupportable to children. 

Our readers must have remarked that Herbert, when 
he seized upon the radish-seeds in the rational toy-shop, 
had not then learned just notions of the nature of pro- 
perty. Mad. de Rosier did not, like Mrs. Grace, repeat 
ineffectually, fifty times a day — ‘^Master Herbert, don^ 
touch that !” — “ Master Herbert, for shame ! ” — “ Let that 
alone, sir!” — ‘^Master Herbert, how dare you, sir!” 
but she prudently began by putting forbidden goods en- 
tirely out of his reach ; thus she, at least, prevented the 
necessity for perpetual irritating prohibitions, and dimin- 
ished, with the temptation, the desire to disobey; she 
gave him some things for his own use, and scrupulously 
refrained from encroaching upon his property: Isabella 
and Matilda followed her example, in this respect, and 

3G 


88 


MORAL TALES. 


thus practically explained to Herbert the meaning of the 
words mine and yours. He was extremely desirous of 
going with Mad. de Rosier to different shops, but she 
cooliy answered his entreaties by observing, “ that she 
could not venture to take him into any one’s house, till 
she was sure that he would not meddle with what was 
not his own.” Herbert now felt the inconvenience of 
his lawless habits: to enjoy the pleasures, he perceived 
that it was necessary to submit to the duties of society ; 
and he began to respect “ the rights of things and per- 
sons.” When his new sense of right and wrong had 
been sufficiently exercised at home. Mad. de Rosier ven- 
tured to expose him to more dangerous trials abroad : 
she took him to a carpenter’s workshop, and though the 
saw, the hammer, the chisel, the plane, and the vice 
assailed him in various forms of temptation, his powers 
of forbearance came off victorious. 

To bear a.nd forbear” has been said to be tl^e sum 
of manly virtue : the virtue of forbearance in childhood 
must always be measured by the pupil’s disposition to 
activity ; a vivacious boy must often have occasion to 
forbear more in a quarter of an hour, than a dull, indo- 
lent child in a quarter of a year. 

“ May 1 touch this?” — “ May I meddle with that?” 
were questions which our prudent hero now failed not 
to ask before he meddled with the property of others, 
and he found his advantage in this mode of proceeding. 
He observed that his governess was, in this respect, as 
scrupulous as she required that he should be, and he 
consequently believed in the truth and general utility 
of her precepts. 

The coach-maker’s, the cooper’s, the turner’s, the 
cabinet-maker’s, even the black ironmonger’s and 
noisy tinman’s shop afforded entertainment for many a 
morning; a trifling gratuity often purchased much in- 
struction, and Mad. de Rosier always examined the 
countenance of the workman before she suffered her 
little pupils to attack him with questions. The eager 
curiosity of children is generally rather agreeable than 
tormenting to tradesmen, who are not too busy to be 


THE GOOD FRExNCH GOVERxVESS. 


89 


benevolent; and the care which Herbert took not to be 
troublesome pleased those to whom he addressed him- 
self. He was delighted, at the upholsterer’s, to observe 
that his little models of furniture had taught him how 
several things were put together, and he soon learned 
the workmen’s names for his ideas. He readily under- 
stood the use of all that he saw, when he went to a 
bookbinder’s, and to a printing office, because, in his 
own printing and book-binder’s press, he had seen simi- 
lar contrivances in miniature. 

Prints, as well as models, were used to enlarge his 
ideas of visible objects. Mad. de Rosier borrowed the 
Dictionnaire des Arts et des Metiers, Buffon, and seve- 
ral books which contained good prints of animals, ma- 
chines, and architecture; these provided amusement 
on rainy days. At first she found it difficult to fix the 
attention of the boisterous Herbert, and the capricious 
Favoretta, Before they Ivad half examined one print, 
they wanted to turn over the leaf to see another; but 
this desultory impatient curiosity she endeavoured to 
cure by steadily showing only one or two prints for each 
day’s amusement. Herbert, who could but just spell 
words of one syllable, could not read what was written 
at the bottom of the prints, and he was sometimes 
ashamed of applying to Favoretta for assistance ; — the 
names that were printed upon his little models of fur- 
niture he at length learned to make out. The press was 
obliged to stand still when Favoretta or his friend Mad. 
de Rosier were not at hand, to tell him, letter by letter, 
how to spell the words that he wanted to print. He 
one evening went up to Mad. de Rosier, and, with a re- 
solute face, said, “ I must learn to read,” 

If anybody will be so good as to teach you, I sup- 
pose you mean,” said she, smiling. 

^•^Will you be so good?” said he: ‘^perhaps you 
could teach me, though Grace says ’tis very difficult; 
I’ll do my best.” 

Then I’ll do my best too,” said Mad. de Rosier. 

The consequences of these good resolutions were 
surprising to Mrs. Grace. Master Herbert was quite 
changed, she observed; and she wondered why he 
h2 


00 


MORAL TALES. 


would never read when she took so much pains with 
him for an hour every day to hear him his task. ‘^Ma- 
dame de What d’ye call her,” added Mrs. Grace, “ need 
not boast much of the hand she has had in the business: 
for I’ve been by at odd times, and watched her ways, 
while I have been dressing Miss Favoretta, and she has 
been hearing you your task. Master Herbert.” 

‘^She doesn’t call it my task — I hate that word.” 

Well, I don’t know what she calls it; for I don’t 
pretend to be a French governess, for my part; but I 
can read English, Master Herbert, as well as another ; 
and it’s strange if I could not teach my mother tongue 
better than an emigrant. What I say is, that she never 
takes much pains one way or the other; for by the 
clock in mistress’ dressing-room, I minuted her twice, 
and she' was five minutes at one time, and not above 
seven the other. Easy earning money for governesses, 
now-a-days. — No tasks! — no, not she! — Nothing all day 
long but play— play — play, laughing, and running, and 
walking and going to see all the shops and sights, and 
going out in the coach to bring home radishes and 
tongue-grass, to be sure — and every thing in the house 
is to be as she pleases, to be sure. I am sure my mis- 
tress is too good to her, only because she was bora a 
lady, they say. — Do, pray, Master Herbert, stand still, 
while I comb your hair, unless that’s against your new 
governess’ commandments.” 

I’ll comb my own hair, Grace,” said Herbert man- 
fully. “ I don’t like one word you have been saying ; 
though I don’t mind any thing you or anybody else 
can say against my friend. She is my friend — and she 
has taught me to read, I say, without bouncing me about 
and shaking me, and Master Herbertmg me for ever. 
And what harm did it do the coach to bring home ray 
radishes? My radishes are come up, and she shall 
have some of them. — And I like the sights and shops she 
shows me; — but she does not like that I should talk to 
you; therefore. I’ll say no more; but good morning to 
you, Grace.” 

Herbert, red with generous passion, rushed out of tne 
room, and Grace, pale with malicious rage, turned to 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


91 


wards the other door thjit opened into Mrs. Harcout’s 
bed-chamber, for Mad. de Rosier at this moment ap- 
peared. — “ I thought I heard a great noise ?” — “ It was 
only Master Herbert, ma’am that won’t never stand still 
to have his hair combed — and says he’ll comb it for him- 
self, — I am sure I wish he would.” 

Mad, de Rosier saw, by the embarrassed manner and 
stifled choler of Mrs, Grace, that the whole truth of the 
business had not been told, and she repented her indis- 
cretion ill having left Herbert with her even for a few 
minutes. She forbore, however, to question Herbert, 
who maintained a dignified silence upon the subject; 
and the same species of silence would also become the 
historian upon this occasion, were it not necessary that 
the character of an intriguing lady’s-maid should, for 
the sake both of parents and children, be fully delineated. 

Mrs. Grace, oflended by Mad, de Rosier’s success in 
teaching her former pupil to read, jealous of this lady’s 
favour with her mistress and with the young ladies, 
irritated by the bold defiance of the indignant champion 
who had stood forth in his friend’s defence, formed a 
secret resolution to obtain revenge. This she imparted, 
the very same day, to her confidant, Mrs. Rebecca. 
Mrs. Rebecca was the favourite maid of Mrs. Fanshaw, 
an acquaintance of Mrs. Harcourt. Grace invited Mrs. 
Rebecca to drink tea with her. As soon as the prelimi- 
nary ceremonies of the tea-table had been adjusted, she 
proceeded to state her grievances. 

“ In former times, as nobody knows better than you, 
Mrs. Rebecca, I had my mistress’ ear, and was all in 
all in the house, with her and the young ladies, and the 
old governess ; and it was I that was to teach Master 
Herbert to read; and Miss Favoretta was almost con- 
stantly, from morning to night, except when she was 
called for by company, with me, and a sweet little well- 
dressed creature always, you know, she was.” 

“A sweet little creature, indeed, ma’am, and I was 
wondering, before you spoke, not to see her in your 
room, as usual, to-night,” replied Mrs. Rebecca. 

Dear Mrs. Rebecca, you need not wonder at that, 
or any thing else that’s wonderful, in our present go- 

30 * 


92 


MORAL TALES. 


vernment above-stairs, Pll assure you; for we have a 
new French governess, and new measures. Do you 
know, ma’am, the coach is ordered to go about at all 
hours, whenever she pleases for to take the young ladies 
out, and she is quite like my mistress. But no one can 
bear two mistresses, you know, Mrs. Rebecca; where- 
fore, I’m come to a resolution, in short, that either she 
or I shall quit the house, and we shall presently see 
which of us it must be. Mrs. Harcourt, at the upshot 
of all things, must be conscious, at the bottom of her 
heart, that, if she is the elegantest dresser about town, 
it’s not all her own merit.” 

Very true, indeed, Mrs. Grace,” replied her com- 
plaisant friend ; “ and what sums of money her millinery 
might cost her, if she had no one clever at making up 
things at home ! You are blamed by many, let me tell 
you, for doing as much as you do. Mrs. Private, the 
milliner, I know from the best authority, is not your 
friend — now, for my part, I think it is no bad thing to 
have friends abroad, if one comes to any difficulties at 
home. — Indeed, my dear, your attachment to Mrs. Har- 
court quite blinds you — but, to be sure, you know your 
own affairs best.” 

Why, I am not for changing when I am well,” re- 
plied Grace. “ Mrs. Harcourt is abroad a great deal, 
and hers is, all things considered, a verv eligible house. 
Now, ^yhat 1 build my hopes upon, my dear Mrs. Re- 
becca, is this — that ladies, like some people who have 
been beauties, and come to make themselves up, and wear 
pearl powder, and false auburn hair, and twenty things 
that are not to be advertised, you know, don’t like quar- 
relli'ng with those that are in the secret — and ladies who 
have never made a. rout about governesses and edication, 
till lately, and now, perhaps, only for fashion’s sake, 
would upon a pinch — don’t you think — rather part with 
a French governess, when there are so many, than with 
a favourite maid who knows her ways, and has a good 
taste in dress, which so few can boast?” 

“O, surely! surely!” said Mrs. Rebecca; and having 
tasted Mrs. Grace’s creme-de-noyau, it was decided that 
war should be declared against ihe governess. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


93 


Mad. de Rosier, happily unconscious of the machina- 
tions of her enemies, and even unsuspicious of having 
any, was, during this important conference, employed 
in reading MarmontePs Silvain, with Isabella and Ma- 
tilda. They were extremely interested in this little play j 
and Mrs. Harcourt, who came ipto the room while they 
were reading, actually sat down on the sofa beside Isa- 
beha, and, putting her arm round her daughter’s waist, 
said, “ Go on, love j let me have a share in some of your 
pleasures — lately, whenever I see you, you all look the 
picture of happiness. — Go on, pray. Mad. de Rosier.” 

“ It was I who was reading, mamma,” said Isabella, 
pointing to the place over Mad. de Rosier’s shoulder — 

‘“Une femme douce et sage 
A toujours taut d’avantage 
Elle a pour elle en parfage 
L’agr^ment, et la raison.’ ” 

** Isabella,” said Mrs. Harcourt, from whom a scarcely 
audible sigh had escaped — ‘‘ Isabella really reads French 
almost as well as she does English.” 

I am improved very much since I have heard Mad. 
de Rosier read,” said Isabella. 

^‘I don’t doubt that, in the least; you are, all of you, 
much improved, I think, in every thing; I am sure I 
feel very much obliged to Mad. de Rosier.” 

Matilda looked pleased by this speech of her mother, 
and affectionately said, ‘‘ I am glad, mamma, you like 
her as well as we do, — O! I forgot that Mad. de Rosier 
was by — but it is not flattery, however.” 

“You see you have won all their hearts”— /rom me, 
Mrs. Harcourt was near saying, but she paused, and 
with a faint laugh, added, “ yet you see I am not jea- 
lous. — Matilda ! read those lines that your sister has just 
read; I want to hear them again.” 

Mrs. Harcourt sent for her work, and spent the even- 
ing at home. Mad. de Rosier, without effort or affect- 
ation, dissipated the slight feeling of jealousy which she 
observed in the mother’s mind, and directed towards her 
the attention of her children, without disclaiming, how- 
ever, the praise that was justly her due. She was 
aware that she could not increase her pupils’ real affec - 


94 


MORAL TALES. 


(ion for their mother by urging them to sentimental hy- 
pocrisy. 

Whether Mrs. Harcourt understo6d her conduct this 
evening, she could not discover — for politeness does not 
always speak the unqualified language of the heart; but 
she trusted to the effect of time, on which persons of 
integrity may always securely rely for their reward. 
Mrs. Harcourt gradually discovered that as she became 
more interested in the occupations and amusements of 
her children, they became more and more grateful for 
her sympathy ; she consequently grew fonder of domes- 
tic life, and of the person who had introduced its plea- 
sures into her family. 

That we may not be accused of attributing any mira- 
culous power to our French governess, we shall explain 
the natural means by which she improved her pupils. 

We have already pointed out how she discouraged, in 
Isabella, the vain desire to load her memory with histo- 
rical and chronological facts, merely for the purpose of 
ostentation. She gradually excited her to read books of 
reasoning, and began with those in which reasoning and 
amusement are mixed. She also endeavoured to culti- 
vate her imagination by giving her a few Avell-chosen 
passages to read, from the best English, French, and 
Italian poets. It was an easier task to direct the activity 
of Isabella’s mind than to excite Matilda’s dormant pow- 
ers. Mad. de Rosier patiently waited till she discovered 
something which seemed to please Matilda more than 
usual. The first book that she appeared to like particu- 
larly was “Les Conversations d’Emilie;” one passage 
she read with great delight aloud ; and Mad. de Rosier, 
who perceived by the manner of reading it that she com- 
pletely understood the elegance of the French, begged 
her to try if she could translate it into English : it was 
not more than half a page. Matilda was not terrified at 
the length of such an undertaking: she succeeded, and 
the praises that were bestowed upon her translation ex- 
cited in her mind some portion of ambition. 

Mad. de Rosier took the greatest care in convers'ing 
with Matilda to make her feel her own powers; when- 
ever she used good arguments, they were immediately 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


95 


attended to; and when Matilda perceived that a prodi- 
gious memory was not essential to success, she was in- 
spired with courage to converse unreservedly. 

An accident pointed out to Mad. de Rosier another re- 
source in Matilda’s education. One day Herbert called 
his sister Matilda to look at an ant who was trying to 
crawl up a stick; he seemed scarcely able to carry his 
large white load in his little forceps, and he frequently 
fell back, when he had just reached the top of the stick. 
Mad. de Rosier, who knew how much the art of instruc- 
tion depends upon seizing the proper moments to intro- 
duce new ideas, asked Herbert whether he had ever 
heard of the poor snail, who, like this ant, slipped back 
continually, as he was endeavouring to climb a wall 
twenty feet high. 

“ I never heard of that snail — pray tell me the story,’^ 
cried Herbert. 

^‘It is not a story — it is a question in arithmetic,” re- 
plied Mad. de Rosier. This snail was to crawl up a 
wall twenty feet high; he crawled up five feet every 
day, and slipped back again four feet every night: in 
how many days did he reach the top of the wall?” 

I love questions in arithmetic,” exclaimed Matilda, 

when they are not too difficult !” and immediately slie 
whispered to Mad. de Rosier the answer to this easy 
question. 

Her exclamation was not lost ; Mad. de Rosier de- 
termined to cultivate her talents for arithmetic. With- 
out fatiguing Matilda’s attention by long exercises in the 
common rules, she gave her questions which obliged her 
io think, and which excited her to reason and to invent; 
she gradually explained to her pupil the relations of 
numbers, and gave her rather more clear ideas of the 
nature and use of the common rules of arithmetic than 
she had acquired from her writing-master, who had 
taught them only in a technical manner. Matilda’s con- 
fidence in herself was thus increased. When she had 
answered a difficult question, she could not doubt that 
she had succeeded ; this was not a matter that admitted 
of the uncertainty which alarms timid tempers. Mad. 
de Rosier began by asking her young arithmetician ques- 


96 


MORAL TALES. 


tions only when they were by themselves — but by-and- 
by she appealed to her before the rest of the family, 
Matilda coloured at first, and looked as if she knew no- 
thing of the business ; but a distinct ansAver was given 
at last, and Isabella’s opinions of her sister’s abilities 
rose with amazing rapidity, when she heard that Ma- 
tilda understood decimal fractions. 

“ Now, my dear Matilda,” said Mad. de Rosier, since 
you understand Avhat even Isabella thinks difficult, you 
will, I hope, have sufficient confidence in yourself to at- 
tempt things which Isabella does not think difficult.” 

Matilda shook her head — “ I am not Isabella yet,’^ 
said she. 

No !” cried Isabella with generous, sincere ■v\’’armth, 

but you are much superior to Isabella : I am certain 
that I could not answer those difficult questions, though 
you think me so quick — and when once you have learn- 
ed any thing, you never forget it; the ideas are not su- 
perficial,” continued Isabella, turning to Mad. de Ro- 
sier ; “they have depth, like the pins in Mosaic Avork.” 

Mad. de Rosier smiled at this allusion, and, encouraged 
by her smile, Isabella’s active imagination immediately 
produced another simile. 

“ I did not know my sister’s abilities till lately — till 
you drew them out. Mad. de Rosier, like your draAving 
upon the screen in sympathetic inks; Avhen you first 
produced it, I looked, and said there was nothing; and 
when I looked again, after you had held it to the fire for 
a feAv moments, beautiful colours and figures appeared.” 

Mad. de Rosier, Avithout using any artifice, succeeded 
in making Isabella and Matilda friends instead of rivals, 
by placing them, as much as possible, in situations in 
Avhich they could mutually sympathize, and by discou- 
raging all painful competition. 

With Herbert and Favorelta she pursued a similar 
plan. She scarcely ever left them alone together, that 
she might not run the hazard of their quarreling in her 
absence. At this age children have not sufficient com- 
mand of their tempers — they do not understand the na- 
ture of society and of justice ; the less they are left to- 
gether, Avhen they are of unequal strength, and when they 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


97 


have not any employments in which they are mutually in- 
terested, the better. Favoretta and Herbert’s petty but 
loud and violent disputes had nearly ceased since these 
precautions had been regularly attended to. As they 
had a great deal of amusement in the few hours which 
they spent together, they grew fond of each other’s com- 
pany ; when Herbert was out in his little garden, he was 
impatient for the time when Favoretta was to come to 
visit his works ; and Favoretta had equal pleasure in 
exhibiting to her brother her various manufactures. 

Mad. de Rosier used to hear them read in Mrs. Bar- 
bauld’s excellent little books, and in “ Evenings at Home 
she generally told them some interesting story when 
they had finished reading, and they regularly seated 
themselves side by side on the carpet, opposite to her. 

One day Herbert established himself in what he called 
his “happy corner,^’ Favoretta placed herself close be- 
side him, and Mad. de Rosier read to them that part of 
Sandford and Merton in which Squire Chace is repre- 
sented beating Harry Sandford unmercifully because he 
refused to tell which way the hare was gone. Mad. de 
Rosier observed that this story made a great impression 
upon Herbert, and she thought it a good opportunity, 
while his mind was warm, to point out the difference 
between resolution and obstinacy. Herbert had been 
formerly disposed to obstinacy ; but this defect in his 
temper never broke out towards Mad. de Rosier, she 
carefully avoided urging him to do those things to which 
she knew him to be averse ; and frequently desired him 
to do what she knew would be agreeable to him; she 
thought it best to suffer him gradually to forget his for- 
mer bad habits and false associations, before she made 
any trial of his obedience ; then she endeavoured to give 
him new habits, by placing him in new situations. She 
now resolved to address herself to his understanding, 
which she perceived had opened to reason. 

He exclaimed with admiration, upon hearing the ac- 
count of Harry Sandford’s fortitude, That’s right! 
that’s right ! — I am glad that Harry did not tell that cruel 
Squire Chace which way the hare was gone. I like 
Harry for bearing to be beaten, rather than speak a word 

I 


98 


MORAL TALES. 


ivhen he did not choose it. I love Harry, don^t you 
said he, appealing to Mad. de Rosier. 

Yes, I like him very much,” said Mad. de Rosier; 
‘^but not for the reason which you have just given.” 

“No!” said Herbert, starting up. “Why, ma’am, 
don’t you like Harry for saving he poor hare? don’t 
you admire him for bearing all hard blows, and for 
saying, when the man asked 1 afterwards why he 
didn’t tell which way the hare ,is gone, ‘Because I 
don’t choose to betray the unfortunate!’ ” 

“O don’t you love him for that?” said Favoretta, 
rising from her seat ; “ I think .‘f’^erbert himself would 
have given just such an answer, only not in such good 
words. 1 wonder. Mad. de Rosier, you don’t like that 
answer!” 

“I have never said that I did not like that answer,” 
said Mad. de Rosier, as soon as she was permitted to 
speak. 

“ Then you do like it? then you do like Harry?” ex- 
claimed Herbert and Favoretta, both at once. 

“Yes, I like that answer, Herbert; I like your friend 
Harry for saying that he did not choose to betray the 
unfortunate. You did not do him justice, nor yourself, 
when you said just now that you liked Harry because he 
bore to be beat rather than speak a word when he did 
not choose it.’’ Herbert looked puzzled. 

“ I mean,” continued Mad. de Rosier, “that before I 
can determine whether I like and admire anybody for 
persisting in doing or in not doing any thing, I must 
hear their reasons for their resolution. ‘ I don’t choose 
it,’ is no reason ; I must hear their reasons for choosing 
or not choosing it before I can judge.” 

“ And I have told you the reason Harry gave for not 
choosing to speak when he was asked, and you said it 
was a good one ; and you like him for his courage, don’t 
you ?” said Herbert. 

“ Yes,” said Mad. de Rosier ; “ those who are reso- 
lute, when they have good reasons for their resolution, 1 
admire ; those who persist merely because they choose 
and who cannot, or will not, tell why they choose it, I 
despise.” 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


99 


O, so do I!” said Favoretta: ‘^you know, brother, 
whenever you say you don’t choose it, 1 am always 
angry, and ask you why.” 

“ And if you were not always angry,” said Mad. de 
Rosier, perhaps sometimes your brother would tell you 
why.” 

“Yes, that I she dd,” said Herbert; “I always have 
a good reason to gi Favoretta, though I don’t always 
choose to give it.” 

“Then,” said Mac. de Rosier, “ you cannot always 
expect your sister to admire the justice of your decisions. 

“No,” replied Hnrbert; “ but when I don’t give her 
a reason, ’tis generally, because it is not worth while. 
There can be no great wisdom, you know, in resolutions 
about trifles; such as whether she should be my horse 
or I her horse, or whether I should water my radishes 
before breakfast or after.” 

“Certainly, you are right: there can be no great 
wisdom in resolutions about such trifles ; therefore wise 
people never are obstinate about trifles.” 

“ Do you know,” cried Herbert, after a pause, “ they 
used, before you came, to say that I was obstinate ; but 
with you I have never been so, because you know how 
to manage me ; you manage me a great deal more 
ningly than Grace used to do.” 

“ I would not manage you more cunningly than Grace 
used to do, if I could,” replied Mad. de Rosier, “ for then 
I should manage you worse than she did. It is no 
pleasure to me to govern you ; I had much rather that 
you should use your reason to govern yourself.” 

Herbert pulled down his waistcoat, and drawing up 
his head, looked with conscious dignity at Favoretta. 

“ You know,” continued Mad. de Rosier, “ that there 
are two Avays of governing people — by reason and by 
force. Those who have no reason, or Avho do not use 
it, must be governed by force.” 

“ I am not one of those,” said Herbert ; “ for I hate 
force.” 

“ Butyou must also love reason,” said Mad.de Rosier, 
“ if you Avould not be one of those.” 

“ Well, so I do, when I hear it from you,” replied Her- 

37 


100 


MORAL TALES. 


% 

oert, bluntly; “ for you give me reasons that I can un- 
derstand, when you ask me to do or not to do any thing: 
I wish people would always do so.’^ 

“But, Herbert,” said Mad. de Rosier, “you must 
sometimes be contented to do as you are desired, even 
when I do not think it proper to give you my reasons ; 
you will hereafter find that I have good ones.” 

“I have found that already in a great many things,” 
said Herbert, “especially about the caterpillar.” 

“What about the caterpillar?” said Favoretta. 

“ Don^'t you remember,” said Herbert, “ the day that 
I was going to tread upon what I thought was a little bit 
of black stick, and she desired me not to do it, and I 
did not, and afterward I found out that it was a cater- 
pillar; ever since that day I have been more ready, you 
know,” continued he, turning to Mad. de Rosier, “ to 
believe that you might be in the right, and to do as you 
bid me — you don’t think me obstinate, do you?” 

“ No,” said Mad. de Rosier. 

“ No ! no! — do you hear that, Favoretta?” cried Her- 
bert, joyfully : “ Grace used to say I was as obstinate 
as a mule, and she used to call me an ass, too ; but even 
poor asses are not obstinate when they are well treated. 
Where is the ass, in the Cabinet of Guadrupeds, Favo- 
retta, which we were looking at the other day ? — O let 
me read the account to you. Mad. de Rosier.' It is to- 
wards the middle of the book, Favoretta ; let me look, I 
can find it in a minute — it is not long — may I read it to 
you ?” 

Mad. de Rosier consented, and Herbert read as fol- 
lows : — 

“‘Much has been said of the stupid and stubborn 
disposition of the ass, but we are greatly inclined to sus- 
pect that the aspersion is ill-founded: whatever bad 
qualities of this kind he may sometimes possess, they do 
not appear to be the consequences of any natural defect 
in his constitution or temper, but arise from the manner 
used in training him, and the bad treatment he receives. 
We are the rather led to this assertion from having lately 
seen one whi^h experiences a very different kind of 
treatment Irom his master than is the fate of the gene- 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 101 

rality of asses. The humane owner of this individual is 
an old man, whose employment is the selling of vege- 
tables, which he conveys from door to door on the back 
of his ass. He is constantly baiting the poor creature 
with handfuls of hay, pieces of bread, or greens, which 
he procures in his progress. It is with pleasure we re- 
late, for we have often curiously observed the old man’s 
demeanour towards his ass, that he seldoms carries any 
instrument of excitement with him, nor did we ever see 
him lift his hand to drive it on. 

‘ Upon our observing to him that he seemed to be 
very kind to his ass, j\nd inquiring whether he were apt 
to be stubborn, how long he had had him. See., he replied, 
“Ah master, it is no use to be cruel, and as for stub- 
bornness, I cannot complain, for he is ready to do any 
thing, and will go anywhere; I bred him myself, and 
have had him these two years; he is sometimes skittish 
and playful, and once ran away from me : you will hard- 
ly believe it, but there were more than fifty people after 
him to stop him, but they were not able to effect it; yet 
he turned back of himself, and never stopped till he run 
his head kindly into ray breast.” 

“‘The countenance of this individual is open, lively, 
and cheerful ; his pace nimble and regular; and the only 
inducement used to make him increase his speed is that 
of calling him by name, which he readily obeys.” ’ 

“I am not an ass,” said Herbert, laughing, as he fin- 
ished this sentence, “but 1 think Mad. de Rosier is very 
like the good old man, and I always obey whenever she 
speaks to me. By-the-by,” continued Herbert, who 
now seemed eager to recollect something* by which he 
could show his readiness to obey — “by-the-by, Grace 
told me that my mother desired 1 should go to her and 
have my hair combed every day ; now I don’t like it, but 
I will do it, because mamma desires it, and I will go this 
instant ; will you come and see how still I can stand ? I 
will show you that I am not obstinate.” 

Mad. de Rosier followed the little hero, to witness his 
triumph over himself . Grace happened to be with her 
mistress, who was dressing. 

“Mamma, I am come to do as you bid me,” cried 
i2 


102 


MORAL TALES. 


Herbert, walking stoutly into the room : “ Grace, here’s 
the comb and he turned to her the tangled locks at 
the back of his head. She pulled unmercifully, but he 
stood without moving a muscle of his countenance. 

Mrs. Harcourt, who saw in her looking-glass what 
was passing, turned round and said, Gently, gentljr, 
Grace ; indeed, Grace, you do pull that poor boy’s hair 
as if you thought that his head had no feeling; I am 
sure, that if you were to pull my hair in that manner, I 
could not bear it so well.” 

^‘vYour hair! — O dear, ma’am, that’s quite another 
thing — but Master Herbert’s is always in such a tangle, 
there’s no such thing as managing it.” Again Mrs. Grace 
gave a desperate pull : Herbert bore it, looked up at 
Mad. de Rosier, and said, “Now, that was resolution 
not obstinacy, you know.” 

“ Here is your little obedient and patient boy,” said 
Mad. de Rosier, leading Herbert to his mother; “who 
deserves to be rewarded with a kiss from you.” 

“ That he shall have,” said Mrs. Harcourt ; “ but why- 
does Grace pull your hair so hard? and are not you 
almost able to comb your own hair?” 

“Able! that 1 am. O, mother, I wish I might do it 
for myself.” 

“ And has Mad. de Rosier any objection to it?” 

^^None in the least,” said Mad. de Rosier ; “ on the 
contrary, I wish that he should do every thing that he 
can do for himself; but he told me that it was your de- 
sire that he should apply to Mrs. Grace, and I was pleased 
to see his ready obedience to your wishes: you may be 
very certain that, even in the slightest trifles, as well as 
in matters of consequence, it is our wish, as much as it 
is our duty, to do exactly as you desire.” 

‘^My dear madam,” said Mrs. Harcourt, laying her 
hand upon Mad. de Rosier’s, with an expression of real 
kindness, mixed with her habitual politeness ; “ I am 
sensible of your goodness, but you know that, in the 
slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, 1 
leave every thing implicitly to your better judgment : as 
to this business between Herbert and Grace, 1 don’t un- 
derstand it.” 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


103 


“ Mother’^ — said Herbert. 

“ Madam,’’ said Grace, pushing forward, but not very 
well knowing what she intended to say, “ if you recollect, 
you desired me to comb Master Herbert’s hair, ma’am, 
and I told Master Herbert so, ma’am, that’s all.” 

I do not recollect any thing about it, indeed, Grace.” 

‘‘O dear, madam! don’t you recollect the last day 
there was company, and Master Herbert came to the top 
of the stairs, and y^'u was looking at the organ’s lamp, I 
said, ‘ Dear! Master Herbert’s hair’s as rough as a por- 
cupine’s and you said directly, ma’am, if you recollect, 
‘ I wish you would make that boy’s hair fit to be seen ;’ 
those was your very words, ma’am, and I thought you 
meant always, ma’am.” 

‘‘You mistook me, Grace,” said Mrs Harcourt, smi- 
ling at her maid’s eager volubility : in future, you un- 
derstand, that Herbert is to be entire master of his own 
hair.” 

“ Thank you, mother,” said Herbert. 

Nay, my dear Herbert, thank Mad. de Rosier : J only 
speak in her name. You understand, 1 am sure, Grace, 
now,^' said Mrs. Harcourt, calling to her maid, who 
seemed to be in haste to quit the room, — you, I hope, 
understand-, Grace, that Mad. de Rosier and I are always 
of one mind about the children ; therefore, you need 
never be puzzled by contradictory orders — hers are to be 
obeyed.” 

Mrs. Harcourt was so much pleased when she looked 
at Herbert, as she concluded this sentence, to see an ex- 
pression of great affection and gratitude, that she stooped 
instantly to kiss him.” 

Another kiss ! two kisses to-day from my mother, 
and one of her own accord!” exclaimed Herbert, joy- 
fully, running out of the room to tell the news to Fa- 
voretta. 

That boy has a heart,” said Mrs. Harcourt, with 
some emotion ; ‘‘you have found it out forme. Mad. de 
Rosier, and I thank yc/u.” 

Mad. de Rosier Sf-ized the propitious moment to pre- 
sent a card of invitation, wliich Herbert, with much 
labour, had printed with his little printing-press. 

37 * 


104 


MORAL TALES. 


“What have we here?” said Mrs. Harcourt, and she 
read aloud — 

“ ‘ Mr. Herbert Harcourt’s love to his dear mother, 
and, if she be not engaged this evening, he should be 
exceedingly glad of her company to meet Isabella, Ma- 
tilda, Favorelta, and Mad. de Rosier, who have promised 
to sup with him upon his own radishes to-night. They 
are all very impatient for your answer.’ ” 

“ My answer they shall have in an instant,” said Mrs. 
Harcourt : — “why. Mad. de Rosier, this is the boy who 
could neither read nor spell six months ago. Will you 
be my messenger?” added she, putting a card into 
Mad. de Rosier’s hand, which she had written with 
rapidity : — 

“Mrs. Harcourt’s love to her dear little Herbert; if 
she had a hundred other invitations, she would accept 
of his.” 

“Bless me!” said Mrs. Grace, when she found the 
feathers which she had placed with so much skill in 
her mistress’ hair, lying upon the table half an hour 
afterward — “why I thought my mistress was going 
out!” 

Grace’s surprise deprived her even of the power of 
exclamation, when she learned that her mistress staid 
at home to sup with Master Herbert upon radishes. At 
night she listened with malignant curiosity, as she sat 
at work in her mistress’ dressing room, to the frequent 
bursts of laughter, and to the happy little voices of the 
festive company, who were at supper in an adjoining 
apartment. 

“ Tliis will never do !” thought Grace, but presently 
the laughter ceased, and listening attentively, she heard 
the voice of one of the young ladies reading. — “ O ho!” 
thought Grace, “ if it comes to reading, Master Herbert 
will soon be asleep.” — But though it had come to reading, 
Herbert was, at this instant, broad awake. 

At supper, when the radishes were distributed, Fa- 
voretta was very impatient to taste them ; the first which 
she tasted was hot, she said, and she did not quite like it. 

“ Hot!” cried Herbert, who criticised her language in 
return' for her criticism upon his radishes; “1 don’t 


I 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 105 

think you can call a radish hoi — it is cold, I think : I 
know what is meant by tasting sweet, or sour, or bitter.’’ 

Well,” interrupted Favoretta, “ what is the name for 
the taste of this radish which bites my longue ?” 

“ Pungent ” said Isabella, and she eagerly produced 
a quotation in. support of her epithet — 

‘“And pungent radish biting infant’s tongue.’ ” 

I know for once,” said Matilda, smiling, where you 
met with that line, I believe ; is it not in Shenstone’s 
Schoolmistress, in the description of the old woman’s 
neat little garden ?” 

‘‘ O ! I should like to hear about that old woman’s neat 
little garden,” cried Herbert. 

‘''And so should I,” said Mrs. Harcourt and Mad. de 
Rosier. 

Isabella quickly produced the book after supper, and 
read the poem. 

Herbert and Favoretta liked the old woman and her 
garden, and they were much interested for the little boy 
who was whipped lor having been gazing at the pictures 
on the horn-book instead of learning his lesson; but, to 
Isabella’s great mortification, they did not understand 
above half of what she had read — the old English ex- 
pressions puzzled them. 

“You would not be surprised at this, my dear Isabella, ” 
said Mad. de Rosier, “ if you had made as many experi- 
ments upon children as 1 have. It is quite a new lan- 
guage to them; and what you have just been reading is 
scarcely intelligible to me, though you compliment me 
so much upon my knowledge of the English language.” 
Mad. de Rosier took the book, and pointed to several 
words which she had notunderslood ; such as “ eftsoons,” 
Phoebus,” and “ne and t/,” which had made 
many lines incomprehensible. 

Herbert, when he heard Mad. de Rosier confess her 
ignorance, began to take courage, and came forward 
with his confessions. 

“ Gingerbread yrnre,^’ he thought, was some particu- 
lar kind of’ gingerbread ; and “Apples with cahhagenei 
ycovered o’er,” presented no delightful image to his 


MORAL TALES. 


ioe 

mind, because, as he said, he did not know what the 
word net ycovered could mean. 

These mistakes occasioned some laughter ; but as 
Herbert perceived that he was no longer thought stupid, 
he took all the laughter with good-humour, and he de- 
termined to follow, in future, Mad. de Hosier’s example 
in pointing out the words which were puzzling. 

Grace was astonished, at the conclusion of the even- 
ing, to find Master Herbert in such high spirits. The 
next day she heard sounds of wo — sounds agreeable to 
her wishes — Favoretta crying upon the stairs. It had 
been a rainy morning; Favoretta and Herbert had been 
disappointed in not being able to walk out; and, after 
having been amused the preceding evening, they were 
less disposed to bear disappointment, and less inclined to 
employ themselves than usual. Favoretta had finished 
her little basket, and her mother had promised that it 
should appear at the dessert ; but it wanted some hours 
of dinner-time; and between the making and the per- 
formance of a promise, how long the time appears to an 
impatient child! how many events happen which may 
change the mind of the promiser 1 

Mad. de Rosier had lent Favoretta and Herbert, for 
their amusement, the first number of The Cabinet of 
duadrupeds,” in which there are beautiful prints; but, 
unfortunately, some dispute arose between the children. 
Favoretta thought her brother looked too long at the 
hunchbacked camel ; he accused her of turning over 
leaves before she had half seen the prints; but she lis- 
tened not to his just reproaches, for she had caught a 
glimpse of the royal tiger springing upon Mr. Munro, 
and she could no longer restrain her impatience. Each 
party began to pull at the book ; and the camel and the 
royal tiger were both in imminent danger of being torn 
to pieces, when Mad. de Rosier interfered, parted the 
combatants, and sent them into separate rooms, — as it 
was her custom to do whenever they could not agree 
together. 

Grace, the moment she heard Favoretta crying, went 
up to the room, where she was, and made her tiptoe ap- 
proaches, addressing Favoretta in a tone of compassion. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


107 


which, to a child’s unpractised ear, might appear, per- 
haps, the natural voice of sympathy. The sobbing 
child hid her face in Grace’s lap ; and when she had 
told her complaint against Mad. de Rosier, Grace com- 
forted her for the' loss of the royal tiger by the present of 
a queen-cake. Grace did not dare to stay long in the 
room, lest Mad. de Rosier should detect her; she there- 
fore left the little girl, with a strict charge ‘^not to say 
a word of the queen-cake to her governess.” 

Favoretta kept the queen-cake, that she might divide 
it with Herbert ; for she now recollected that she had 
been most to blame in the dispute about the prints. 
Herbert absolutely refused, however, to have any share 
of the cake, and he strongly urged his sister to return it 
to Grace. 

Herbert had, /omerZy, to use his own expression, 
been accused of being fond of eating ; and so, perhaps, 
he was : but since he had acquired other pleasures 
(those of affection and employment), his love of eating 
had diminished so much that he had eaten only one of 
his own radishes, because he felt more pleasure in dis- 
tributing the rest to his mother and sisters. 

It was with some difficulty that he prevailed upon Fa- 
voretta to restore the queen-cake; the arguments that he 
used we shall not detail, but he concluded with promis- 
ing that, if Favoretta would return the cake, he would 
ask Mad. de Rosier, the next time they passed by the 
pastry-cook’s shop, to give them some queen-cakes ; 
“ and I dare say she will give us some, for she is much 
more really good-natured than Grace.” 

Favoretta, with this hope of a future queen-cake, in 
addition to all her brother’s arguments, at last deter- 
mined to return Grace’s present : Herbert says I had 
better give it you back again,” said she, “ because Mad. 
ffe Rosier does not know it.” * 

Grace was somewhat surprised by the effect of Her- 
bert’s oratory, and she saw that she must change her 
ground. 

The next day, when the children were walking with 
Mad. de Rosier by a pastry-cook’s shop, Herbert, with 
an honest countenance, asked Mad. de Rosier to give 


108 


MORAL TALES. 


Faroretta and him a queen-cake. She complied, for she 
was glad to find that he always asked frankly for wha 
he wanted, and yet that he bore refusals with good- 
humour. 

Just as Herbert was going to eat his queen-cake he 
heard the sound of music in the street ; he went to the 
door, and saw a poor man who was playing on the dul- 
cimer : a little boy was with him, who looked extremely 
thin and hungry ; he asked Herbert for some halfpence. 

‘H have no money of my own,” said Herbert, but 
I can give you this, which is my own.” 

Mad. de Rosier held his hand back, which he had just 
stretched out to offer his queen-cake ; she advised him 
to exchange it for something more substantial; she told 
him that he might have two buns for one queen-cake. 
He immediately changed it for two buns, and gave them 
to the little boy, who thanked him heartily. The man 
who was playing on the dulcimer asked where Herbert 
lived, and promised to stop at his door to play a tune for 
him, which he seemed to like particularly. 

Convinced by the affair of the queen-cake that Her- 
bert’s influence was a matter of some consequence in the 
family, Mrs. Grace began to repent that she had made 
him her enemy ; and she resolved, upon the first conve- 
nient occasion, to make him overtures of peace, — over- 
tures which, she had no doubt, would be readily ac- 
cepted. 

One morning she heard him sighing and groaning, as 
she thought, over some difficult sum which Mad. de Ro- 
sier had set for him ; he cast up one row aloud several 
times, but could not bring the total twice to the same 
thing. When he took his sum to Mad. de Rosier, who 
was dressing, he was kept waiting a few minutes at the 
door, because Favoretta was not dressed. The young 
gentleman became a little impatient, and when he gain- 
ed admittance his sum was wrong. 

‘"Then I cannot make it right,” said Herbert, pas- 
sionately. 

“ Try,” said Mad. de Rosier; ""go into that closet by 
yourself, and try once more, and perhaps you will find 
that you can make it right.” 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 109 

Herbert knelt down in the closet, though rather un- 
willingly, to this provoking sum. 

Master Herbert, my dear,” said Mrs. Grace follow- 
ing him, “ will you be so good as to go for Miss Favo- 
retta’s scissors, if you please, which she lent you yes- 
terday? she wants ’em, my dear.” 

Herbert, surprised by the unusually good-natured tone 
of this request, ran for the scissors, and at his return 
found that his difficult sum had been cast up in his ab- 
sence ; the total was written at the bottom of it, and he 
read these words which he knew to be Mrs. Grace’s 
writing ; Rub out my figurs, and write them in your 
own.” Herbert immediately rubbed out Mrs. Grace’s 
figures with indignation, and determined to do the sum 
for himself. He carried it to Mad. de Rosier, — it was 
wrong : Grace stared, and when she saw Herbert pa- 
tiently stand beside Mad. de Rosier, and repeat his 
efforts, she gave up all idea of obtaining any influence 
over him. 

Mad. de Rosier,” said she to herself, has bewitch- 
ed ’em all ; I think it’s odd one can’t find put her art!” 

Mrs. Grace seemed to think that she could catch the 
knack of educating children, as she had surreptitiously 
learned, from a fashionable hairdresser, the art of dress- 
ing hair. Ever since Mrs. Harcourt had spoken in such 
a decided manner respecting Mad. de Rosier, her maid 
had artfully maintained the greatest appearance of re- 
spect for that lady in her mistress’ presence; and had 
even been scrupulous, to a troublesome extreme, in 
obeying the governess^ orders: and by a studied show of 
attachment to Mrs. Harcourt, and much alacrity at her 
toilette, she had, as she flattered herself, secured a fresh 
portion of favour. 

One morning Mrs. Harcourt found, when she awoke, 
that she had a headache and a slight feverish complaint. 
She had caught cold the night before in coming out of a 
warm assembly-room. Mrs. Grace affected to be much 
alarmed at her mistress’ indisposition, and urged her to 

send immediately for Dr. X . To this Mrs. Harcourt 

half consented, and a messenger was sent for him. In 
the mean time Mrs. Harcourt, who had been used to be 

K 


110 


MORAL TALES. 


much attended to in her slight indispositions^ expressed 
some surprise that Mad. de Rosier or some of her chil- 
dren, when they heard that she wa*s ill, had not come to 
see her.' 

“ Where is Isabella? where is Matilda ? or Favoret- 
ta? what is become of them all? do they know I am ill, 
Grace?” 

“ O dear! yes, ma’am ; but they’re all gone out in the 
coach, w'ith Mad. de Rosier.” 

“All?” said Mrs. Harcourt. 

“All, I believe ma’am,” said Grace; “ though, indeed, 
I can’t pretend to be sure, since I make it my business 
not to scrutinize, and to know as little as possible of 
what’s going on in the house, lest I should seem to be 
too particular.” 

“ Did Mad. de Rosier leave any message for me before 
she went out?” 

“Not with me, ma’am.” 

Here the prevaricating waiting-maid told barely the 
truth in words : Mad. de Rosier had left a message with 
the footman in Grace’s hearing. 

“ I hope, ma’am,” continued Grace, “ you Averen’t dis- 
turbed with the noise in the house early this morning?” 

What noise ? — I heard no noise,” said Mrs. Harcourt. 

^‘No noise! dear ma’am. I’m as glad as can possibly 
be of that, at any rate ; but to be sure there was a great 
racket. I was really afraid, ma’am, it would do no good 
to your poor head.” 

“What was the matter?” said Mrs. Harcourt, draw- 
ing back the curtain. 

“ O ! nothing, ma’am, that need alarm you — only mu- 
sic and dancing.” 

“ Music and dancing so early in the morning! — Do, 
Grace, say all you have to say at once, for you keep me 
in suspense, which, I am sure, is not good for my head.” 

“La, ma’am, I was so afraid it would make you an- 
gry, ma’am — that was what made me so backward in 
mentioning it; but, to be sure. Mad. de Rosier, and the 
young ladies, and Master Herbert, I suppose, thought 
you couldn’t hear, because it was in the back parlour, 
ma’am.” 


THE coon FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


Ill 


^^Hear what? whai was in the back parlour?’’ 

Only a dulcimer man^ ma’am, playing for the young 
ladies.” 

Did you tell them I was ill, Grace ?” 

It was the second time Mrs. Harcourt had asked this 
question. Grace was gratified by this symptom. 

‘‘ Indeed, ma’am,” she replied, ^^I did make bold to 
tell Master Herbert that I was afraid you would hear 
him jumping and making such an uproar up and down 
the stairs ; but, to be sure, I did not say a word to the 
young ladies — as Mad. de Rosier was by, I thought she 
knew best.” 

A gentle knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Grace’s 
charitable animadversions. 

Bless me, if it isn’t the young ladies ! I’m sure I 
thought they were gone out in the coach.” 

As Isabella and Matilda came up to the side of their 
mother’s bed, she said, in a languid voice, 

^‘I hope, Matilda, my dear, you did not stay at. home 
on my account — Is Isabella there ? — What book has she 
in her hand ?” 

Zeluco, mamma — I thought, perhaps, you would 
like to hear some more of it — you liked what I read to 
you the other day.” 

‘^But you forget that I have a terrible headache — 
Pray don’t let me detain either of you, if you have any 
thing to do for Mad. de Rosier.” 

“Nothing in the world, mamma,” said Matilda; 
“ she is gone to take Herbert and Favoretta to Exeter 
’Change.” 

No further explanation could take place, for, at this 

instant, Mrs. Gr^ce introduced Dr. X . Now Dr. 

X was not one of ^those complaisant physicians who 

flatter ladies that they are very ill when they have any 
desire to excite tender alarm. 

After satisfying himself that his patient was not quite 

so ill as Mrs. Grace had affected to believe. Dr. X 

insensibly led from medical inquiries to general conver- 
sation : he had much playful wit and knowledge of the 
human heart, mixed with a variety of information, so 
that he could with happy facility amuse and interest 

QQ 


.12 


MORAL TATES. 


nervous patients, who were beyond the power of the 
solemn apothecary. 

The doctor drew the young ladies into conversation by 
rallying Isabella upon her simplicity in reading a novel 
openly in her molher^s presence; he observed that she 
did not follow the example of the famous Serena, in 
“ The Triumphs of Temper.” Zeluco ! ” he exclaim- 
ed, in an ironical tone of disdain ; “ why not the charm- 
ing * Sorrows of Werter,’ or some of our fashionable 
hobgoblin romances 

Isabella undertook the defence of her book with much 
enthusiasm — and either her cause, or her defence, was 

so much to Dr. X ’s taste, that he gradually gave up 

his feigned attack. 

After the argument was over, and everybody, not ex- 
cepting Mrs. Harcourt, who had almost forgotten her 
headache, was pleased with the vanquished doctor, he 
drew from his pocket-book three or four small cards ; 

they were tickets of admittance to Lady N ’s French 

reading parties. 

Lady N ^ was an elderly lady, whose rank made 

literature fashionable among many, who aspired to the 
honour of being noticed by her. She was esteemed such 
an excellent judge of manners, abilities, and character, 
that her approbation was anxiously courted, more espe- 
cially by mothers, Avho were just introducing their 
daughters into the world. She was fond of encouraging 
youthful merit; but she was nice, some thought fasti- 
dious, in the choice of her young acquaintance. 

Mrs. Harcourt had been very desirous that Isabella 
and Matilda should be early distinguished by a person 
whose approving voice was of so much consequence in 
fashionable, as well as in literary society ; and she was 

highly flattered by Dr. X ’s prophecy, that Isabella 

would be a great favourite of this “ nice-judging lady” 
— “ Provided,” added he, turning to Isabella, you 
have the prudence not to be always, as you have been 
this morning, victorious in argument.” 

I think,” said Mrs. Harcourt — after the doctor liad 
taken his leave — “ I think I am much better — ring for 
Grace, and I will get up.” 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


113 


Mamma,” said Matilda, if you will give me leave, 
I will give my ticket for the reading party to Mad. de 
•Rosier, because, 1 am sure, it is an entertainment she 
will like particularly — and, you know, she coniines her- 
self so much with us — ” 

do not wish her to confine herself so much, my 
dear, I am sure,” said Mrs. Harcourt, coldly, for, at this 
instant, Grace’s representations of the morning’s music 
and dancing, and some remains of her former jealousy 
of Mad. de Hosier’s influence over her children’s affec- 
tions, operated upon her mind. Pride prevented her 
from explaining herself further to Isabella or Matilda — 
and though they saw that she was displeased, they had 
no idea of the reason. As she was dressing, Mrs. Har- 
court conversed with them about the books they were 
reading. Matilda was reading Hogarth’s Analysis of 
Beauty ; and she gave a distinct account of his theory. 

Mrs. Harcourt, when she perceived her daughter’s 
rapid improvement, felt a mixture of joy and sorrow. 

“^My dears,” said she, you will all of you be much 
superior to your mother — but girls were educated, in my 
days, quite in a different style from what they are now.” 

‘^Ah! there were no Mad. de Rosiers then,” said 
Matilda, innocently.” 

“ What sort of woman was your mother, mamma,” 
said Isabella, my grandmother, mamma?” 

‘^She — she was a very good woman.” 

Was she sensible?” said Isabella.” 

Matilda, my dear,” said Mrs. Harcourt, I wish 
you would see if Mad. de Rosier has returned — I should 
be very glad to speak with her, for one moment, if she 
be not engaged.” 

Under the veil of politeness, Mrs. Harcourt concealed 
her real feelings, and declaring to Mad. de Rosier that 
she did not feel in spirits, or sufficiently well to go out 
that evening, she requested that Mad. de Rosier would 
go, in her stead, to a dinner, where she knew her com- 
pany would be particularly acceptable. — “ You will trust 
me, will you, with your pupils for one evening?” added 
Mrs. Harcourt. 

The tone and manner in which she pronounced these 

2 


I 


'114 MORAL TALES. 

words revealed the real slate of her mind to Mad. de Ro 
sier, who immediately complied with her wishes. 

Conscious of this lady’s quick penetration, Mrs. Har- 
court was abashed by this^ ready compliance, and she 
blamed herself for feelings which she could not suppress. 

, “I am sorry that you were not at home this morning,” 
she continued, in a hurried manner — “ you would have 

been delighted with Dr. X ; he is one of the most 

entertaining men I am acquainted with — and you would 
have been vastly proud of your pupil there,” pointing to 
Isabella 5 “ I assure you, she pleased me extremely.” 

In the evening, after Mad. de Hosier’s departure, Mrs. 
Harcourt was not quite so happy as she had expected. 
They who have only seen children in picturesque situa- 
tions, are not aware how much the duration of this do- 
mestic happiness depends upon those who have the care 
of them. People who, with the greatest abilities and the 
most anxious affection, are inexperienced in education, 

' should not be surprised or morlifiedsif their first aitempls 
be not attended with success. Mrs. Harcourt thought 
that she was doing what was very useful in hearing Her- 
bert read ; he read with tolerable fluency, but he stopped 
at the end of almost every sentence, to weigh the exact 
sense of the words. In this habit he had been indulged, 
or rather encouraged, by his preceptress ; but his simple 
questions, and his desire to have every word, precisely 
explained, were far from aijiusing to one who was little 
accustomed to the difficulties and misapprehensions of a 
young reader. 

Herbert was reading a passage, which Mad. de Rosier 
had marked for him in Xenophon’s Cyropsedia. With 
her explanations, it might have been intelligible to him. 
Herbert read the account of Cyrus’ judgment upon the 
two boys who had quarrelled about their great and little 
coats, much to his mother’s satisfaction, because he had 
understood every word of it, except the word constituted. 

V “ Constituted judge — what does that mean, mamma ?” 

“ Made a judge, my dear; go on.” 

‘‘1 saw a judge once, mamma, in a great wig — had 
. Cyrus a wig, when he was con — consti — made a judge?” 

Isabella and Mrs. Harcourt laughed at this question; 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 115 

and they endeavoured to explain the difference between 
a Persian and an English judge. 

Herbert with some difficulty separated the ideas which 
he had so firmly associated, of a judge and a great wig j 
and \yhen he had, or thought he had, an abstractfiotion 
of a judge, he obeyed his mother’s repeated injunctions 
of Go on — Go on.” He went on, after observing, that 
what came next was not marked by Mad. de Rosier for 
him to read. 

Cyrus’ mother says to him : Child, the same things 
are not accounted just with your grandfather here, and 
yonder in Persia.’^ 

At this sentence Herbert made a deep stop ; and, after 
pondering for some time, said, I don’t understand what 
Cyrus’ mother meant — what does she mean by accounted 
just? — Accounted, Matilda, I thought meant only about 
casting up sums-.” 

It has another meaning, my dear,” Matilda mildly 
began. 

for Heaven’s sake, spare me!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Harcourt ; do not let me hear all the meanings of all 
the words in the English language. Herbert may look 
for the words that he does not understand in the diction- 
ary, when he has done reading — Go on, now, pray ; for,” 
added she, looking at her watch, “ you have been half 
an hour reading half a page : this would tire the patience 
of Job.” 

Herbert, perceiving that his mother was displeased, 
began, in the same instant, to be frightened ; he hurried 
on as fast as he could, without understanding one word 
more of what he was reading ; his precipitation was 
worse than his slowness : he stumbled over the words, 
missed syllables, missed lines, made the most incompre- 
hensible nonsense of the whole ; till, at length, Mrs. 
Harcourt shut the book in despair, and soon afterward 
despatched Herbert, who was also in despair, to bed. 
At this catastrophe, Favoretta looked very grave, and a 
general gloom seemed to overspread the company. 

Mrs. Harcourt was mortified at the silence that pre- 
vailed, and made several ineffectual attempts to revive 
the freedom and gayely of conversation: — “Ah!” said 

38 * 


116 


MORAL TALES. 


she to herself, “ I knew it would be so ; they cannot be 
happy without Mad. de Rosier.” 

Isabella had taken up a book. — Cannot you read for 
our entertainment, Isabella, my dear, as well as for your 
own?'^ said her mother: assure you, I am as much 

interested always in what you read to me, as Mad. de 
Rosier herself can be. 

‘^1 was just looking, mamma, for some lines that we 
read the other day, which Mad. de Rosier said she was 
sure you would like. Can you find them, Matilda? — 
You know Mad. de Rosier said that mamma would like 
them, because she has been at the opera.” 

I have been at a great many operas,” said Mrs. 
Harcourt, dryly ; but I like other things as well as 
operas — and I cannot precisely guess what you mean by 
the opera — has it no name 1” 

“Medea and Jason, ma’am.” 

The bdht of Medea and Jason — It’s a very fine thing 
certainly : but one has seen it so often. — Read on, my 
dear.” 

Isabella then read a passage, which, notwithstanding 
Mrs. Harcourt’s inclination to be displeased, captivated 
her ear, and seized her imagination. 

“Slow out of earth, before the festive crowds, 

On wheels of fire, amid a night of clouds. 

Drawn by fierce fiends, arose a magic car, 

Received the queen, and, hov’ring, flamed in air. 

As with raised hands the suppliant traitors kneel. 

And fear the vengeance they deserved lo feel ; 

Thrice, with parch’d lips, her guiltless babes she press’d : 

And thrice she clasp’d them to her tortured breast. 

Awhile with white uplifted eyes she stood. 

Then plunged her trembling poinards in their blood. 

Go, kiss y^our sire ! go, share the bridal mirth ! 

She cried, and hurl’d their quiv’ring limbs on earth. 
Rebellowing thunders rock the marble tow’rs. 

And red-tongued lightnings shoot their arrowy show’rs. 

Earth yawns !— the crashing ruin sinks ! — o’er all 
Death with black hands extends his mighty pall.” 

“ They are admirable lines, indeed !” exclaimed Mrs 
Harcourt. 

“I knew, mamma, you would like them,” said Isabella, 
“and I’m sure I wish I had seen .the ballet too.” 

“You were never at an opera,” said Mrs. Harcourt 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


117 


after Isabella had finished reading; should either 
of you, or both, like to go with me to-night to the 
opera?’’ 

“To-night, ma’am !” cried Isabella, in a voice ofjoy. 

“To-night, mamma!” cried Matilda, timidly; “but 
you were not well this morning.” 

“ But I am very well now, my love ; at least quite 
well enough to go out with you — let me give you some 
pleasure. — Ring for Grace, my dear Matilda,” added 
Mrs. Harcourt, looking at her watch, “and do not let 
us be sentimental, for we have not a moment to lose — 
we must prevail upon Grace to be as quick as lightning 
in her operations.” 

Grace was well disposed to be quick — she was de- 
lighted with what she called the change of measures; she 
repeated continually, in the midst of their hurried toi- 
lette — 

“Well, I am so glad, young ladies, you’re going out 
with your mamma, at last — I never saw my mistress look 
so well as she does to-night.” 

Triumphant, and feeling herself to be a person of con- 
sequence, Grace was indefatigably busy, and Mrs. Har- 
court thought that her talkative zeal was the overflowing 
of an honest heart. 

After Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, were 
gone to the opera, Favoretta, who had been sent to bed 
by her mother, because she was in the way when they 
were dressing, called to Grace, to beg that she would 
close the shutters in her room, for the moon shone upon 
her bed, and she could not go to sleep. 

I wish mamma would have let me sit up a little 
longer,” said Favoretta, “for I am not at all sleepy.” 

“ You always go to bed a great deal earlier, you know. 
Miss,” said Grace, “ when your governess is at home; 
I would let you get up, and come down to tea with me, 
for I’m just going to take my late dish of tea, to rest my- 
self, only I dare not let you, because” — 

“ Because what?” 

‘^Because, Miss, you remember how you served me 
about the queen-cake.” 

“But I do not want you to give me any queen-cake 


18 


MORAL TALES. 


1 only want to get up for a little while,” said Favoretta. 
^‘The.i get up,” said Grace; ^^but don’t make a noise 
to waken Master Herbert.” 

“ Do you think,” said Favoretta, that Herbert would 
think it wrong?” 

“ laaeed, I don’t think at all about what he thinks,” 
said Mrs. Grace, tossing back her head, as she adjusted 
her dress at the glass ; “ and, if you think so much about 
it, you’d better lie down again.” 

“ O ! I can’t lie down again,” said Favoretta ; I have 
got my shoes on — stay for me, Grace — I’m just ready.” 

Grace, who was pleased with an \opportunity of in- 
dulging this little girl, and who flattered herself that she 
should regain her former power over Favoretta’s undis- 
tinguishing affections, waited for her most willingly. 
Grace drank her late dish of tea in her mistress’ dressing- 
room, and did every thing in her power to humour ‘^her 
sweet Favoretta.” 

Mrs. Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw’s maid, was summoned; 
she lived in the next street. She v/as quite overjoyed, 
she said, at entering the room, to see Miss Favoretta — 
it was an age since she had a sight or a glimpse of her. 

We pass over the edifying conversation of those two 
ladies — Miss Favoretta was kept awake, and in suoh 
high spirits by flattery, that she did not perceive how 
late it was — she begged to stay up a little longer, and a 
little longer. 

Mrs. Rebecca joined in these entreaties, and Mrs.' 
Grace could not refuse them; especially as she knew 
that the coach would not go for Mad. de Rosier till after 
her mistress’ return from the opera. 

The coachman had made this arrangement for his own 
convenience, and had placed it entirely to the account 
of his horses. 

Mrs. Grace depended rather imprudently upon the 
coachman’s arrangement; for Mad.de Rosier, finding 
that the coach did not call for her at the hour she had 
appointed, sent for a chair, and returned home, while 
Grace, Mrs. Rebecca, and E’avoretta, were yet in Mrs. 
Harcourt’s dressing-room. 

Favoretta was making a great noise, so that they did 
not hear the knock at the door. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 119 

One of the house- maids apprized Mrs. Grace of Mad. 
de Hosier’s arrival. “ She’s getting out of her chair, 
Mrs. Grace, in the hall.” 

Grace started up, put Favoretta into a little closet, 
and charged her not to make the least noise for her life. 
Then, with a candle in her hand, and a treacherous smile 
upon her countenance, she sallied forth to the head of 
the stairs to light Mad. de Rosier . — “ Dear ma’am ! my 
mistress will be so sorry the coach didn’t go for you in 
time; — she found herself better after you went — and the 
two young ladies are gone with her to the opera.” 

‘^And where are Herbert”and Favoretta?” 

In bed, ma’am, and asleep hours ago. — Shall I light 
you, ma’am, this way to your room?” 

“ No,” said Mad. de Rosier ; “ I have a letter to write : 
and I’ll wait in Mrs. Harcourt’s dressing-room till she 
comes home.” 

Very well, ma’am. Mrs. Rebecca, it’s only Mad. 
de Rosier. — Mad de Rosier, it’s only Rebecca, Mrs. Fan- 
shaw’s maid, ma’am, who’s here very often when my 
mistress is at home, and just stepped up to look at the 
young ladies’ drawings, which my mistress gave me 
leave to show her the first time she drank tea with me, 
ma’am.” 

Mad. de Rosier, who thought all this did not concern 
her in the least, listened to it with cold indifference, and 
sat down to write her letter. 

Grace fidgeted about the room as long as she could 
find any pretence for moving any thing imo or out of its 
place; and, at length, in no small degree of anxiety for 
the prisoner she had left in the closet, quitted the dress- 
ing-room. 

As Mad. de Rosier was writing, she once or twice 
thought that she heard some noise in the closet; she 
listened, but all was silent; and she continued to write 
till Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda came home. 

Isabella was in high spirits, and began to talk with 
considerable volubility to Mad. de Rosier about the 
opera. / 

Mrs. Harcourt was full of apologies about the coach 
and Matilda rather anxious to discover what it Avas that 


]20 


MORAL TALES. 


had made a change in her mother’s manner towards 
Mad. de Rosier. 

Grace, glad to see that they were all intent upon their 
own aflairs, lighted their candles expeditiously, and stood 
waiting, in hopes that they would immediately leave the 
room, and that she should be able to release her pri- 
soner. 

Favoretta usually slept in a little closet within Mrs. 
Grace’s room, so that she foresaw no difficulty, in getting 
her to bed 

“ I heard! — did not ijou hear a noise, Isabella? ’’said 
Matilda. - 

‘‘ A noise ! — No ; where !” said Isabella, and went on 
talking alternately to her mother and Mad. de Rosier, 
whom she held fast, though they seemed somewhat in- 
clined to retire to rest. 

“ Indeed,” said Matilda, “ I did hear a noise in that 
closet.” 

‘‘O dear. Miss Matilda,” cried Grace, getting between 
Matilda and the closet, “ it’s nothing in life but a 
mouse.” 

A mouse, where!” said Mrs Harcourt. 

Nowhere, ma’am,” said Grace, “ only Miss Matilda 
was hearing noises, and I said they must be mice.” 

‘‘There, mamma! there! that was not a mouse 
surely !” said Matilda. “ It was a noise louder, certain- 
ly, than any mouse could make.” 

“Grace is frightened,” said Isabella, laughing. 

Grace, indeed, looked pale and terribly frightened. 

Mad. de Rosier look a candle, and walked directly to 
the closet. 

“Ring for the men,” said Mrs. Harcourt. 

Matilda held back Mad. de Rosier ; and Isabella, whose 
head was now just recovered from the opera, rang the 
bell with considerable energy. 

“ Dear Miss Isabella, don’t ring so ; — dear ma’am, 
don’t be frightened, and I’ll tell you the whole truth, 
ma’am,’, said Grace to her mistress; it’t nothing in the 
world to frighten any body — it’s only Miss Favoretta, 
ma’am.” 

“Favoretta!” exclaimed everybody at once, except 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 121 

Mad. de Rosier, who instantly opened the closet-door, 
but no Favoretta appeared. 

“Favoretta is not here,” said Mad. de Rosier. 

»^‘Then I’m undone!” exclaimed Grace j she must 
have got out upon the leads.” The leads were at this 
place narrow, and very dangerous. 

Don’t scream, or the child is lost,” said Mad. de 
Rosier. 

Mrs. Harcouri sank down into an arm-chair. Mad. 
de Rosier stopped Isabella, who pressed into the closet. 

‘‘ Don’t speak, Isabella — Grace, go into the closet — 
call Favoretta — hear me, quietly,” said Mad. de Rosier, 
steadily, for Mrs. Grace was in such confusion of mind 
that she was going to call upon the child without waiting 
to hear what was said to her — ‘‘ Hear me,” said Mad. 
de Rosier, “ or you are undone : go into that closet with- 
out making any bustle — call Favoretta gently; she will 
not be frightened when she hears only your voice.” 

Grace did as she Avas ordered, and returned from the 
closet in a few instants with Favoretta. Grace instantly 
began an exculpatory speech, but Mrs. Harcourt, though 
still trembling, had sufficient firmness to say, Leave 
us, Grace, and let me hear the truth from the child.” 

Grace left the room. Favoretta related exactly what 
had happened, and said, that when she heard all their 
voices in the dressing-room, and when she heard Matilda 
say there’s a noise, she was afraid of being discovered 
in the closet, and had crept out through a little door, 
with which she was well acquainted, that opened upon 
the leads. 

Mrs. Harcourt now broke forth into indignant excla- 
mations against Grace. Mad. de Rosier gently pacilied 
her, and hinted that it would be but just to give her a 
fair hearing in the morning. 

You are always yourself! always excellent!” cried 
Mrs. Harcourt ; “ you have saved my child : we none of 
us had any presence of mind but yourself.” 

Indeed, mamma, I did ring the bell, however,” said 
Isabella. 

With much difficulty those who had so much to say, 
submitted to Mad. de Rosier’s entreaty of “ Let us talk 

I. 


122 


MORAL TALES. 


of it in the morning.” She was afraid that Favoretta, 
who was present, would not draw any salutary moral 
from what might be said in the first emotions of joy for 
her safety. Mad. de Rosier undressed the little girl her- 
self, and took care that she should not be treated as a 
heroine just escaped from imminent danger. 

The morning came, and Mrs. Grace listened with anx- 
ious ear for the first sound of her mistress’ bell; but no 
bell rang ; and when she heard Mrs. Harcourt walking 
in her bedchamber, Grace augured ill of her own fate, 
and foreboded the decline and fall of her empire. 

“If my mistress can get up and dress herself without 
me, it’s all over with me,” said Grace ; “ but I’ll make 
one trial.” Then she knocked, with her most obliging 
knock, at her mistress’ door, and presented herself with 
a Magdalen face. “ Can I do anything for you, ma’am?” 

.“Nothing, I thank you, Grace. Send Isabella and 
Matilda.” 

Isabella and Matilda came, but Mrs. Harcourt finished 
dressing herself in silence, and then said, 

“ Come with me, my dear girls, to Mad. de Rosier’s 
room. I believe I had better ask her the question that I 
was going to ask you — is she up?” 

“Yes, but not dressed,” said Matilda; “for we have 
been reading to her.” 

“And talking to her,” added Isabella, “ which, you 
know, hinders people very much, mamma, when they 
are dressing.” 

At Mad. de Rosier’s door they found Herbert, with his 
slate in his hand, and his sum ready cast up. 

“May I bring this little man in with me?” said Mrs. 
Harcourt to Mad. de Rosier. “ Herbert, shake hands 
with me,” continued his mother: “I believe I was a 
little impatient with you and your Cyrus last night, but 
you must not expect that everybody should be as good 
to you as this lady has been,” leading him up to Mad. 
de Rosier. 

“ Set this gentleman’s heart at ease, will you?” con- 
tinued she, presenting the slate upon which his sum was 
written to Mad. de Rosier. “ He looks the picture, or 
rather the reality, of honesty and good-humour this morn 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 123 

ing, I think. I am sure that he has not done any thing 
that he is ashamed of.” 

Little Herbert’s countenance glowed with pleasure at 
receiving such praise from his mother; but he soon 
checked his pride, for he discovered Favoretta, upon 
whom every eye had turned as Mrs. Harcourt concluded 
her speech. 

F avoretta was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, 
and she turned her face to the wall when Herbert looked 
at her ; but Herbert saw that she was in disgrace. Your 
sum is quite right, Herbert,” said Mad. de Rosier. 

“Herbert take your slate,” said Matilda ; and the young 
gentleman had at length the politeness to relieve her 
mt-stretched arm. 

“ Send him out of the way,” whispered Mrs. Harcourt. 

“ Go out of the room, Herbert, my dear,” said Mad. 
de Rosier, who never made use of artifices upon any 
occasion to get rid of children: “go out of the room, 
Herbert, my dear; for we wajit to talk about something 
that we do not wish that you should hear.” 

Herbert, though he was anxious to know what could 
be the matter with Favoretta, instantly withdrew, saying, 
“Will you call me again when you’ve done talking?” 

“ We can speak French,” added Mad. de Rosier, look- 
ing at Favoretta ; “ since we cannot trust that little girl 
in a room by herself, we must speak in a language which 
she does not understand, when we have any thing to say 
that we do not choose she should hear.” 

“After all this preparation,” said Mrs. Harcourt in 
French, “ my little mouse will make you laugh : it will 
not surprise or frighten you, Matilda, quite so much as 
the mouse of last night. You must know that I have 
been much disturbed by certain noises.” 

“ More noises !” said Matilda, drawing closer to listen. 

“More noises!” said Mrs. Harcourt, laughing; “but 
the noises which disturbed my repose were not heard in 
the dead of the night, just as the clock struck twelve— 
the charming hour for being frightened out of one’s wits, 
Matilda : my noises were heard in broad daylight, about 
the time 

“ When lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake." 

39 


124 


MORAL TALES. 


Was not there music and dancing here; early yesterday 
morning, when I had the headache, Isabella 

“Yes, mamma,” said Isabella; Herbert’s dulcimer- 
boy was here! — we call him Herbert’s dulcimer-boy, 
because Herbert gave him two buns the other day : the 
boy and his father came from gratitude to play a tune 
for Herbert, and we all ran and asked Mad. de Rosier to 
let them in.” 

“ We did not know you had the headache, mamma,” 
said Matilda, “till after they had played several tunes, 
and we heard Grace say something to Herbert about 
racketing upon the stairs — he only ran up stairs once for 
my music-book; and the moment 'Grace spoke to him 
he came to us, and said that you were not well; then 
Mad, de Rosier stopped the dulcimer, and we all left off 
dancing, and we were very sorry Grace had not told us 
sooner that you were ill : at that time it AYas ten — nearly 
eleven o’clock.” 

“ Grace strangely misrepresented all this,” said Mrs. 
Harcourt: “ as she gave her advice so late, I am sorry 
she gave it at all ; she prevented you and Isabella from 
the pleasure of going out with Mad. de Rosier.” 

“ We prevented ourselves — Grace did not prevent us, 
I assure you, mamma,” said Isabella, eagerly: “we 
wished to stay at home with you : Herbert and Favoretta 
were only going to see the royal tiger.” 

“Then you did not stay at home by Mad. de Rosier’s 
desire?” 

“ No, indeed, madam,” said Mad. de Rosier, who had 
'not appeared in any haste to justify herself ; “ your chil- 
dren always show you affection by their own desire, 
never by mine : your penetration would certainly discover 
the difference between attentions prompted by a govern- 
ess, and those which are shown by artless affection.” 

“ My dear madam, say no more,” said Mrs. Harcourt, 
holding out her hand; “ you are a real friend.^’ 

Mad. de Rosier now went to call Herbert, but on open- 
ing the door, Mrs. Grace fell forward upon her face into 
the room ; she had been kneeling w'ith her head close to 
the key-hole of the door ; and probably the sound of her 
own name, and a few sentences now' and then spoken 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


125 


in English, had so fixed her attention that she did not 
prepare in time for her retreat. 

‘‘Get up, Grace, and walk in if you please,” said 
Mrs. Harcourt, with much calmness; “ we have not the 
least objection to you hearing our conversation.” 

“ Indeed, ma’am,” said Grace, as soon as she had re- 
covered her feet, “ I’m above listening to anybody’s con- 
versation, except that when one hears one’s own name, 
and knows that one has enemies, it is but natural to listen 
in one’s own defence.” 

“ And is that all you can do, Grace, in your own de- 
fence ?” said Mrs. Harcourt. 

“ It’s not all I can say, ma’am,” replied Grace, pushed 
to extremities, and still with a secret hope that her mis- 
tress, 2ipon a pinch, would not part with a favourite maid : 
“I see I’m of no further use in the family, neither to 
young or old — and new comers have put me quite out 
of favour, and have your ear to themselves ; so, if you 
please, ma’am, I had better look out for another situa- 
tion.” 

“ If you please, Grace,” said Mrs. Harcourt. 

“ I will leave the house this instant if you think pro- 
per, ma’am.” 

“ If you think proper, Grace,” said her mistress, with 
immoveable philosophy. 

Grace burst into tears : “ I never thought it would 
come to this, Mrs. Harcourt : I, that have lived so long 
such a favourite ! But I don’t blame you, madam; you 
have been the best and kindest of mistresses to me ; and 
whatever becomes of me, to my dying words, I shall 
always give you and the dear young ladies, the best of 
characters.” 

“ The character we may give you, Grace, is of rather 
more consequence.” 

“ Every thing that I say and do,” interrupted the sob- 
bing Grace, ‘‘ is vilified and misinterpreted by those who 
wish me ill. I — ” 

“ You have desired to leave me, Grace; and my de- 
sire is that you should leave me,” said Mrs. Harcourt, 
with firmness. “ Mad. de Rosier and I strictly forbade 
you to interfere with any of the children in our absence; 


]26 


MORAL TALES. 


you have thought proper to disregard these orders ; and 
were you to stay longer in my house I perceive that you 
would teach my children first to disobey, and afterward 
to deceive me.’^ 

Grace, little prepared for this calm decision, now in a 
frightened, humble tone, began to make promises of 
reformation ; but her promises and apologies were vain ; 
she was compelled to depart, and everybody was glad to 
have done with her. 

Favoretta, young as she Avas, had already learned 
from this cunning waiting-maid habits of deceit which 
could not be suddenly changed. Mad. de Rosier at- 
tempted her cure by making her feel, in the first place, 
the inconveniences and the disgrace of not being trusted. 
FaA'oretta Avas ashamed to perceive that she Avas the 
only person in the house who was watched : and she 
was heartily glad Avhen by degrees she had opportunities 
allowed her of obtaining a character for truth, and all 
the pleasures and all the advantages of confidence. 

Things Avent on much better after the gnome-like influ- 
ence of Mrs. Grace had ceased : but Ave mustnoAV hasten 
to introduce our readers to Mrs. FanshaAV. Mrs. Fan- 
shaAV Avas a card-playing lady, Avho had been educated 
at a time when it Avas not thought necessary for Avomen 
to have any knoAvledge, or any taste for literature. As 
she advanced in life, she continually recurred to the max- 
ims as well as to the fashions of her youth ; and the im- 
provements in modern female education she treated as 
dangerous innovations. She had placed her daughter at 
a boarding-school in London, the expense of Avhich Avas 
its chief recommendation ; and she saAv her regularly at 
the Christmas and Midsummer holydays. At length, 
when Miss FanshaAv Avas about sixteen, her prudent 
mother began to think that it was time to take her from 
school, and to introduce her into the Avorld. Miss Fan- 
shaAv had learned to speak French passably, to read a 
little Italian, to draAV a little, to play tolerably Avell upon 
the piano-forte, and to dance as well as many other young 
ladies. She had been sedulously taught a sovereign con- 
tempt of v/hatever Avas called vulgar dii the school Avhere 
she was educated; but as she Avas profoundly ignorant 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


127 


of every thing but the routine of that school, she had no 
precise idea of propriety; she only knew what was 
tliought vulgar or genteel at Suxberry House ; and the 
authority of Mrs. Suxberry (for that was the name of 
her schoolmistress) she quoted as incontrovertible upon 
all occasions. Without reflecting upon what was wrong 
or right, she decided with pert vivacity on all subjects, 
and tirmly believed that no one could know or could 
learn any thing who had not been educated precisely as 
she had been. She considered her mother as an inferior 
personage, destitute of genteel accomplishments: her 
mother considered her as a model of perfection, that 
could only have been rendered thus thoroughly accom- 
plished by the most expensive masters — her only fear was, 
that her dear Jane should be rather too learned. 

Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, paid Mrs. 
Fanshaw a visit as soon as they heard that her daughter 
was come home. 

Miss Fanshaw, an erect stiffened figure, made her en- 
tree ; and it was impossible not to perceive that her 
whole soul was intent upon her manner of holding her 
head and placing her elbows as she came into the room. 
Her person had undergone all the ordinary and extraor- 
dinary tortures of back-boards, collars, slocks, dumb- 
bells, &c. She looked at Isabella and Matilda with some 
surprise and contempt during the first ten minutes after 
her entrance; for they were neither of them seated in 
the exact posture which she had been instructed to think 
the only position in which a young lady should sit in com- 
pany. Isabella got up to look at a drawing ; Miss Fan- 
shaw watched every step she took, and settled it in her 
own mind that Miss Harcourt did not walk as if she had 
ever been at Suxberry House. Matilda endeavoured to 
engage the figure that sat beside her in conversation; 
but the figure had no conversation, and the utmost that 
Matilda could obtain was a few monosyllables pro- 
nounced- with affected gravity; for at Suxberry House 
this young lady had been taught to maintain an invin- 
cible silence when produced to strangers ; but she made 
herself amends for this constraint the moment she was 
with her companions, by a titlering, gossiping species 


128 


MORAL TALES. 


of communication which scarcely deserves the name of 
conversation. 

While the silent Miss Fanshaw sat so as to do her 
dancing-master strict justice, Mrs. Fanshaw was stating 
to Mrs. Harcourt the enormous expense to which she 
had gone in her daughter's education. Though firm to 
her original doctrine, that woman had no occasion for 
learning — in which word of reproach she included all 
literature — she nevertheless had been convinced, by the 
unanimous voice of fashion, that accomplishments were 
most desirable for young-ladies — desirable, merely because 
they were fashionable ; she did not, in the least, consider 
them as sources of independent occupation. 

Isabella was struck with sudden admiration at the 
sight of a head of Jupiter which Miss Fanshaw had just 
finished, and Mrs. Harcourt borro\yed it for her to copy ; 
though Miss Fanshaw was secretly but decidedly of 
opinion, that no one who had not learned from the draw- 
ing-master at Suxberry House could copy this head of 
Jupiter with any chance of success. 

There was a pretty kttle netting-box upon the table 
which caught Matilda’s eye, and she asked the silent 
figure what it was made of. The silent figure turned 
its head mechanically, but could give no information 
upon the subject. Mrs. Fanshaw, however, said that 
she had bought the box at the Repository for ingenious 
works, and that the reason she chose it was because 
Lady N had recommended it to her. 

■ “ It is some kind of new manufacture, her ladyship 
tells me, invented by some poor little boy that she pa- 
tronises ; her ladyship can tell you more of the matter. 
Miss Matilda, than 1 can,” concluded Mrs. Fanshaw; 
and, producing her netting, she asked Mrs. Harcourt, 

if she had not been vastly notable to have got forward 
so fast with her work.” 

The remainder of the visit was spent in recounting her 
losses at the card-table, and in exhortation to Mrs. Har- 
court to send Miss Isabella and Matilda to finish their 
education at Suxberry House. 

Mrs. Harcourt was somewhat alarmed at the idea that 
her daughters would not be equal to Miss Fanshaw in 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


]29 


accomplishment; but fortunately for Mad. de Rosier and 
herself, she was soon induced to change her opinion by 
further opportunities of comparison. 

In a few days her visit was returned. Mrs. Harcourt 
happened to mention the globe that Isabella was paint- 
ing; Miss Fanshaw begged to see it, and she went into 
Mrs. Harcourt’s dressing-room, where it hung. The 
moment she found herself with Isabella and Matilda, owi 
of company, the silent figure became talkative. The 
charm seemed to be broken, or rather reversed, and she 
began to chatter with pert incessant rapidity. 

Dear rae,’^ said she, casting a scornful glance at 
Matilda’s globe, this is vastly pretty, but we’ve no such 
thing at Suxberry House. I wonder Mrs. Harcourt 
didn’t send both of you to Suxberry House — everybody 
sends their daughters, who can afford it, now, to Sux- 
berry House ; but, to be sure, it’s very expensive — we 
had all silver forks, and every thing in the highest style, 
and Mrs, Suxberry keeps a coach. I assure you, she’s 
not at all like a schoolmistress, and she thinks it very 
rude and vulgar of anybody to call her a schoolmistress. 
Won’t you ask your mamma to send you, if it’s only for 
the name of it, for one year, to Suxberry House?” 

No,” said Matilda ; we are so happy under the 
care of Mad. de Rosier.” 

Ah, dear me! I forgot — mamma told me youhlgot a 
new French governess lately — our French teacher, at 
Suxberry House, was so strict, and so cross, if one made 
a mistake in the tenses : it’s very well for you your go- 
verness is not cross — does she give you very hard exer- 
cises? — let me look at your exercise book, and I’ll tell 
you whether it’s the right one — I mean that we used to 
have at Suxberry House.”' 

Miss Fanshaw snatched up a book, in which she saw 
a paper, which she took for a French exercise. 

“ Come, show it me, and I’ll correct the faults for 
you, before your governess sees it, and she’ll be so sur- 
prised!” 

Mad. de Rosier has seen it,” said Matilda ; — but 
Miss Fanshaw, in a romping manner, pulled the paper 
out of her hands. It was the translation of a part of 


130 


MORAL TALES. 


“ Les Conversations d’Emilie,” which we formerly men- 
tioned. 

‘‘La !” said Miss Fanshaw, “ we had no such book as 
this at Suxberry House.” 

Matilda’s translation she was surprised to find correct. 

“ And do you write themes?” said she — “ We always 
wrote themes once every week, at Suxberry House, 
which I used to hale of all things, for I never could find 
any thing to say — it made me hate writing, I know ; — 
but that’s all over now ; thank goodness I’ve done with 
themes and French letters, and exercises, and transla- 
tions, and all those plaguing things ; and now I’ve left 
school for ever, I may do just as I please — that’s the best 
of going to school; it’s over with some time or other, 
and there’s an end of it; but you that have a governess 
and masters at home, you go on for ever and ever, and 
you have no holydays either ; and you have no out-of 
school hours ; you are kept hard at it from morning till 
night ; now I should hate that of all things. At Sux- 
herry House, when we had got our task done, and fin- 
ished with the writing-master and the drawing-master, 
and when we had practised for the music-master, and 
all that, we might be as idle as we pleased, and do what 
we liked out of school-hours — you know that was very 
pleasant: I assure you, you’d like being at Suxberry 
House amazingly.” 

Isabella and Matilda, to whom it did not appear the 
most delightful of all things to be idle, nor the most 
desirable thing in the world to have thejr education fin- 
ished, and then to lay aside all thoughts of further im- 
provement, could not assent to Miss Fanshaw’s conclud- 
ing assertion. They declared that they did not feel any 
want of holydays ; at which Miss Fanshaw stared ; they 
said that they had no tasks, and that they liked to be 
employed rather better than to be idle; at which Miss 
Fanshaw laughed, and sarcastically said, “You need 
not talk to me as if your governess was by, for I am not 
a tell-tale — I shan’t repeat what you say.” 

Isabella and Matilda, who had not two methods of 
talking, looked rather displeased at this ill-bred speech. 

“Nay,” said Miss Fanshaw, “ I hope you aren’t af- 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


131 


fronted notn at what I said; when we are by ourselves, 
you know one says just what comes into one’s head. 
Whose handsome coach is this, pray, with a coronet?” 
continued she, looking out of the window ; I declare 
it is stopping at your door; do let us go down. I’m 
never afraid of going into the room when there’s com- 
pany, for we were taught to go into a room at Suxberry 
House; and Mrs. Suxberry says* it’s very vulgar to be 
ashamed, and I assure you its all custom. 1 used to 
colour, as Miss Matilda does, every minute; but I got 
over it before I had been long at Suxberry House.” 

Isabella, who had just been, reading Father’s 
Legacy to his Daughters,” recollected at this instant 
Dr. Gregory’s opinion’ “ that when a girl ceases to blush, 
she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty.” She 
had not, however, time to quote this in Matilda’s defence ; 
for Miss Fanshaw ran down stairs, and Isabella recol- 
lected, before she overtook her, that it would not be po- 
lite to remind her of her early loss of charms. 

Lady N was, in the coach which had excited 

Miss Fanshaw’s admiration; and this young lady had 
a glorious opportunity of showing the graces that she 
had been taught at such expense, for the room was full 
of company. Several morning visitors had called upon 
Mrs. Harcourt, and they formed a pretty large circle, 
which Miss Fanshaw viewed upon her entrance with a 
sort of studied assurance. 

Mrs. Fanshaw watched Lady N ’s eye as her 

daughter came into the room ; but Lady N did not 

appear to be much struck with the second-hand graces 
of Suxberry House; her eye passed over Miss, Fan- 
shaw, in search of some thing less affected and more in- 
teresting. 

Miss Fanshaw had now resumed her compamj face 
and attitude; she sat. in prudent silence, while Lady 

N addressed her conversation to Isabella and Matilda, 

whose thoughts did not seem to be totally engrossed by 
their own persons. , 

Dr. X had prepared this lady to think favourably 

of Mad. de Hosier’s pupils, by the account which he 
had given her upon Isabella’s remarks upon Zeluco. 


132 


MORAL TALES. 


A person of good sense who has an encouragingcoun- 
tenance, can easily draw out the abilities of young peo- 
ple ; and from their manner of listening, as well as from 
their manner of speaking, can soon form a judgment of 
their temper and understanding. 

Miss Fanshaw, instead of attending with a desire to 
improve herself from sensible conversation, sat with a 
look as absent as that of an unskilful actress, while the 
other performers are engaged in their parts. 

There was a small book-case in a recess at the fur- 
ther end of the room, and upon a little table there were 
some books, which Isabella and Matilda had been read- 
1 , ing with Mad. de Rosier. Mrs. Fanshaw looked towards 
the table, with a sarcastic smile, and said — 

“ You are great readers, young ladies, I see : may we 
know what are your studies?’^ 

Miss Fanshaw, to show how well she could walk, 
crossed the room, and took up one of the books. 

‘ Alison upon Taste’ — that’s a pretty book, I dare 
say — but la! what’s this. Miss Isabella? A Smith's 
Theory of Moral Sentiments’ — dear me! that must be a 
curious performance — by a smith ! a common smith!” 

Isabella good-naturedly stopped her from further ab- 
surd exclamations by turning to the titlepage of the 
book, and showing her the words Adam Smith.’^ 
"‘Ah! A stands for Adam! very true — I thought it 
was a smith,” said Miss Fanshaw. 

""Well, my dear,” said her mother, who had quick- 
ness enough to perceive that her daughter had made 
some mistake by the countenances of the company, but 
who had not sufficient erudition to know what the mis- 
take could be — "" well, my dear, and suppose it was a 
smith, there’s nothing extraordinary in that — nothing 
extraordinary in a smith’s writing a book now-a-days ; 
— Athy not a common blacksmith, as well as a common 
ploughman ? — I was asked, I know, not long ago, to 
subscribe to the poems of a common ploughman.” 

"" The Ayrshire ploughman ?” said Lady N 

"" Yes, they called him so, as I recollect, and I really 
had a rnind to put my name down, for I think I saw your 
ladyship’s among the subscribers.” 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


133 


“ Yes, tHey are beautiful poems,” said Lady N . 

“ So I underslaad — there are some vastly pretty 
things in his collection — but one hears of so many good 
things coming out every day,” said Mrs. Fanshaw, in a 
plaintive voice. ‘^In these days, I think, everybody 
writes — ” 

“And reads,” said Lady N . 

“And reads,” said Mrs. Fanshaw. 

“We have learned ladies now, wherever one goes, 
who tell one they never play at cards — I am sure they 
are very bad company. Jane,” said she, turning to her 
daughter, “I hope you won’t take it into your head to 
turn out a reading lady?” 

“ O dear, no!” said Miss Fanshaw: “we had not 
much time for reading at Suxberry House, we were so 
busy with our masters; — we had a charming English 
master, though, to teach us elocution, because it’s so 
fashionable now to read aloud well. Mrs. Harcourt, isuH 
it odd to read English books to a French governess?” 
continued this young lady, whose constrained taciturnity 
now gave way to a strong desire to show herself off be- 
fore Lady N . She had observed that Isabella and 

Matilda had been listened to with approbation, and she 
imagined that when she spoke, she should certainly 
eclipse them. 

Mrs. Harcourt replied to her observation, that Mad. 
de Rosier not only read and spoke English remarkably 
well, but that she had also a general knowledge of Eng- 
lish literature. 

“ O I here are some French books,” said Miss Fan- 
shaw, taking down one out of the book-case — “ ‘^Jour- 
nal Etranger’ — dear me! are you translating of this. 
Miss Isabella?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Harcourt ; “ Mad. de Rosier brought 
it down stairs yesterday to show us an essay of Hume’s 
on the study of history, which is particularly addressed 
to women ; and Mad. de Rosier says that it is not to be 
found in several of the late editions of Hume’s Essays — 
she thought it singular that it should be preserved in a 
French translation.” 

“ There is,” said Isabella, an entertaining account ia 


134 


MORAL TALES. 


that essay of a lady who asked Hume to lend her some 
novels! — He lent her Plutarch’s Lives, which she 
thought very amusing, till she found out that they were 
true. As soon as she came to the names -of Caesar and 
Alexander, she returned the books.” 

Mrs. Fanshaw was surprised that Lady N begged 

to look at this essay ; and was much disappointed to ob- 
serve that the graceful manner in which Miss Fanshaw 
presented the book to her ladyship escaped notice. 

‘‘ Pray, Miss Matilda, is that a drawing?” said Mrs. 
Fanshaw, in hopes of leading to a more favourable 
subject. 

“ O, dear me I do pray favour us with a sight of it!” 
cried Miss Fanshaw, and she eagerly unrolled the paper, 
though Matilda assured her that it was not a drawing. 

It was Hogarth’s print of a country dance, which is 
prefixed to his ‘‘Analysis of Beauty.” 

“It is the oddest thing!” exclaimed Miss Fanshaw, 
who thought every thing odd or strange which she had 
not seen at Suxberry House. Without staying to ob- 
serve the innumerable strokes of humour and of original 
genius in the print, she ran on — “ La ! it’s hardly worth 
any one’s while, surely, to draw such a set of vulgar 
figures — one hates low humour.” Then, in a hurry to 
show her taste for dress, she observed that “ people, for- 
merly, must have had no taste at all; — one can hardly 
believe such things were ever worn.” 

Mrs. Fanshaw, touched by this reflection upon the 
taste of former times, though she seldom presumed to 
oppose any of her daughter’s opinions, could not here 
refrain from saying a few words in defence of sacks^ 
long waists, and whalebone stays, and she pointed to a 
row of stays in the margin of one of these prints of Ho- 
garth. 

Miss Fanshaw, who did not consider that with those 
who have a taste for propriety in manners she could not 
gain any thing by a triumph over her mother, laughed 
in a disdainful manner at her mother’s “ partiality for 
stays , and wondered how anybody could think long 
waists becoming. 

“Surely a^’body who knows any thing of drawing. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 135 

or has any taste for an antique figure, must acknow- 
ledge the present fashion to be most graceful.” She ap- 
pealed to Isabella and Matilda. 

They were so much struck with the impropriety of ' 
her manner towards her mother, that they did not im- 
mediately answer ; Matilda at length said, “ It is natural 
to like what we have been early used to and, from 
unaffected gentleness, eager to prevent Miss Fanshaw 
from further exposing her ignorance, 'she rolled up the 
print ; and Lady N , smiling at Mrs. Harcourt, said, 

I never saw a print more gracefully rolled up in my 
life.” Miss Fanshaw immediately rolled up another of 
the prints, but no applause ensued. 

At the next pause in the conversatioji, Mrs. Fanshaw 
and her daughter took their leave, seemingly dissatisfied 
with their visit. 

Matilda, just after Mrs. Fanshaw left the room, recol- 
lected her pretty netting box, and asked Lady N 

whether she knew any thing of the little boy by whom 
it was made. 

Her ladyship gave such an interesting account of him, 
that Matilda determined to have her share in relieving 
his distress. 

Matilda’s- benevolence was formerly rather passive 
than active ; but from Mad. de Rosier she had learned 
that sensibility should not be suffered to evaporate in 
sighs or in sentimental speeches. She had also learnt 
that economy is necessary to generosity ; and she con- 
sequently sometimes denied herself the gratification of 
her own tastes, that she might be able to assist tlvose 
who were in distress. i 

She had lately seen a beautiful print of the king of 
France taking leave of his family ; and as Mad. de Ro- 
sier was struck with it, she wished 1o have bought it for 
her; but she now considered that a guinea, which was 
the price of the print, might be better bestowed on this 
poor, little, ingenious, industrious boy : so she begged 
her mother to send to the repository for one of his boxes. 
The servants were all busy, and Matilda did not receive 
her box till the next morning. 

Herbert was reading to Mad. de Rosier when the ser- 

40 


MORAL TALES. 


13fi 

vant brought the box into the room. Favoretta got up 
to look at it, and immediately Herbert’s eye glanced 
from his book : in spite of all his endeavours to com- 
mand his attention he heard the exclamations of “ Beau- 
tiful! — how smooth! — like tortoise-shell! — What can it 
be made of?” 

‘‘ My dear Herbert, shut the book,” said Mad. de Ro- 
sier, “ if your head be in that box. Never read one mo- 
ment afte? you have ceased to attend.” 

‘‘Jt is my fault,” said Matilda; I will put the box out 
of the way till he has finished reading.” 

When Herbert had recalled his wandering thoughts 
and had fixed his mind upon what he was about. Mad. 
de Rosier put her hand upon the book — he started — 
‘‘Now let us see the beautiful box,” said she. 

After it had passed through Favoretta and Herbert’s 
impatient hands, Matilda, who had scarcely looked at it 
herself, took it to the window, to give it a sober exami- 
nation. “ It is not made of paper or pasteboard, and it 
is not the colour of tortoise-shell,” said Matilda: “I 
never saw any thing like it before ; I wonder what it can 
be made of?” 

Herbert, at this question, unperceived by Matilda, 
who was examining the box very earnestly, seized the 
lid, which was lying upon the table, and ran out of the 
room; he returned in a few minutes, and presented the 
lid to Matilda. “ I can tell you one thing, Matilda,” 
said he, with an important face — “it is an animal — an 
animal substance I mean.” 

“O, Herbert,” cried Matilda, “ what have you been 
doing! — you have blackened the corner of the box.” 

“Only the least bit in the world,” said Herbert, “to 
try an experiment. 1 only put one corner to the candle 
that Isabella had lighted to seal her letter.” 

“My dear Herbert, how could you burn your sister’s 
box?” expostulated Mad. de Rosier : “ I thought you did 
not love mischief.” 

“Mischief! — no, indeed; I thought you would be 
pleased that I remembered how to distinguish animal 
from vegetable substances. You know the day that my 
hair was on fire, you told me how to do that; and Ma- 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


137 


tllda wanted to know what the box was made of; so I 
tried.” 

Well,” said Matilda, good-naturedly, “ you have not 
done me much harm.’’ 

“ But another time,” said Mad. de Rosier, don’t 
burn a box, that costs a guinea, to try an experiment; 
and, above all things, never, upon any account, take 
what is not your own.” 

The corner of the lid that had been held to the candle 
was a little warped, so that the lid did not slide into its 
groove as easily as it did before. Herbert was disposed 
to use force upon the occasion ; but Matilda with diffi- 
culty rescued her box by an argument which fortunately 
reached his understanding time enough to slop his hand. 

It was the heat of the candle that warped it,” said 
she : “ let us dip it into boiling water, which cannot be 
made too hot, and that rvill, perhaps, bring it back to its 
shape.” 

The lid of the box was dipped into boiling water, and 
restored to its shape. Matilda, as she was wiping it dry, 
observed that some yellow paint, or varnish, came off, 
and in one spot, on the inside of the lid, she discovered 
something like writing. 

Who will lend me a magnifying glass?” 

Favoretta produced hers. 

I have kept it,” said she, a great greaf while, ever 
since we were at the Rational Toy-shop.” 

Mad. de Rosier, do look at this !” exclaimed Matilda 
— here are letters quite plain ! — I have found the name, 
I do believe, of the boy who made the box!” and she 
spelled, letter by letter, as she looked through the mag- 
nifying glass, tire words Henri-Montmorenci. 

Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at 
her sudden emotion, put the box and magnifying glass 
into her hand. Madame de Rosier’s hand trembled sc 
much that she could not fix the glass. 

“Je ne vois rien — lisez — vite! — ma chere amie — un 
mot de plus !” said she, putting the glass again into Ma 
tilda’s hand, and leaning over her shoulder with a look 
of agonizing expectation. 

The word de was all that Matilda could make out. 


138 


MORAL TALES. 


Isabella tried — it was in vain — no other letters were 
visible. 

De vv hat ! — de Rosier ! — it must be ! my son is alive ! 
said the mother. 

Henri-Montrnorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier’s 
son ; but when she reflected for an inStant that this might 
also be the name of some other person, her transport of 
joy was checked, and seemed to be converted into de- 
spair. 

Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her 
mind returned. She sent directly to the repository — no 
news of the boy could there be obtained. Lady N-— 
was gone, for a few days, to Windsor : so no intelligence 
could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out — no 
carriage at home — but Mad. de Rosier set out immedi- 
ately, and walked to Golden-square, near which place 
she knew that a number of French emigrants resided. 
She stopped first'^at a bookseller’s shop; she described 
the person of her son, and inquired if any such person 
had been seen in that neighbourhood. 

The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his 
customers, but struck with Mad. de Rosier’s anxiety, and 
perceiving that she was a foreigner by her accent, he put 
down his pen, and begged her to repeat once more the 
description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he 
had seen such a person — but he had not. He, however, 
with true English good-nature, told her that she had an 
excellent chance of finding him in this part of the town, 
if he were in London — he was sorry that his shopman 
was from home, or he would have sent him with her 
through the streets near the square, where he knew the 
emigrants chiefly lodged ; — he gave her in writing a list 
of the names of these streets, and stood at his door to 
watch and speed her on her way. 

She called at the neighbouring shops — she walked 
down several narrow streets, inquiring at every house, 
where she thought there was any chance of success, but 
in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to the 
door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who 
was so bewildered, that she could not for some time an- 
swer any questions; at’another house the master was 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


139 


out : at another the master was at dinner. As it got to- 
wards four o’clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult 
to obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the 
tradesmen were at dinner, and when they came to the 
door, looked out of humour at being interrupted and dis- 
appointed at not meeting with a customer. She walked 
on, her mind still indefatigable : she heard a clock in the 
neighbourhood strike five; her strength was not equal to 
the energy of her mind; and the repeated answers of 
“ We know of no such person” — “No such boy lives 
here, ma’am,” made her at length despair of success. 

One street upon her list remained unsearched — it was 
narrow, dark, and dirty ; she stopped for a moment at 
the corner, but a porter, heavily laden, with a sudden 
‘‘By your leave, ma’am!” pushed forwards, and she 
was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger’s 
shop. The master of the shop, who was weighing some 
iron goods, let the scale go up, and, after a look of sur- 
prise, said — 

“You’ve lost your way, madam, I presume — be pleased 
to rest yourself — it is but a dark place;” and wiping a 
stool, on which some locks had been lying, he left Mad. 
de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue, to 
rest herself, while, without any officious civility, after 
calling his wife from a back shop to give the lady a glass 
of water, he went on weighing his iron and whistling. 

The woman, as soon as Mad. de Rosier had drunk 
the water, inquired if she should send for a coach for her, 
or could do any thing to serve her. 

The extreme good-nature of the tone in which this 
was spoken, seemed to revive Mad. de Rosier; she told 
her that she was searching for an only son, whom she 
had for nearly two years believed to be dead : she showed 
the paper on which his name was written : the woman 
could notread — her husband read the name, but he shook 
his head — “ he knew of no lad who answered to the 
description.” 

While they were speaking, a little boy came into the 
shop with a bit of small iron wire in his hand, and 
twitching the skirt of the ironmonger’s coat to attract his 
attention, asked if he had any such wire as that in his 

40 * 


140 


MORAL TALES. 


shop. When the ironmonger went to get down a roll 
of wire, the little boy had a full view of Mad. de Rosier. 
Though she was naturally disposed to take notice of 
children, yet now she was so intent upon her own 
thoughts, that she did not observe him till he had bowed 
several times just opposite to her. 

Are you bowing to me, my good boy?” said she : 
“ you mistake me for somebody else ; I don’t know you 
and she looked down again upon the paper on which 
she had written the name of her son. 

But indeed, ma’am, I know j/om,” said the little boy : 

aren’t you the lady that was with the good-natured 
young gentleman, who met me going out of the pastry- 
cook’s shop, and gave me the two buns?” 

Mad. de Rosier now looked in his face ; the shop was 
so dark that she could not distinguish his features, but 
she recollected his voice, and knew him to be the little 
boy belonging to the dulcimer-nian. 

“Father would have come again to your house,” said 
the boy, who did not perceive her inattention — “Father 
would have come to your house again, to play the tune 
the young gentleman fancied so much, but our dulcimer 
is broke.” 

“ Is it ? I am sorry for it,” said Mad. de Rosier. But 
can you tell me,” continued she to the ironmonger, 
“whether any emigrants lodge in the street to the left 
of your house?” The master of the shop tried to recol- 
lect: she again repeated the name and description of her 
son. ^ 

“I know a young French lad of that make,” said the 
little dulcimer-boy. 

“ Do you ? Where is he ? Where does he lodge ?” 
cried Mad. de Rosier. 

“ I am not speaking as to his name, for I never heard 
his name,” said the little boy ; ‘i but I’ll tell you how I 
came to know him. One day lately — ” 

Mad. de Rosier interrupted him with questions con- 
cerning the figure, height, age, eyes, of the French lad. 

The little dulcimer-boy, by his answers, sometimes 
made her doubt, and sometimes made her certain, that 
be was her son. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


141 


“ Tell me,” said she, “ where he lodges : I nmsl see 
liim immediately.” 

I am just come from him, and I’m going back to 
him with the wire j I’ll show you the way with plea- 
sure ; he is the best natured lad in the world ; he is mend- 
ing my dulcimer; he deserves to be a great gentleman, 
and I thought he was not what he seemed,” continued 
the little boy, as he walked on, scarcely able to keep be- 
fore Mad. de Rosier. 

‘‘ This way, ma’am — this way — he lives in the corner 
nouse, turning into Golden-square.” It was a stationer’s. 

“ I have called at this house already,” said Mad. de 
Rosier; but she recollected that it was when the family 
were at dinner, and that a stupid maid had not under- 
stood her questions. She was unable to speak, through 
extreme agitation, when she came to the shop : the lit- 
tle dulcimer-boy walked straight forward, and gently 
drew back the short curtain that hung before a glass door, 
opening into a back parlour. Mad. de Rosier sprang 
forward to the door, looked through the glass, and was 
alarmed to see a young man taller than her son ; he was 
at work ; his back was towards her. 

When he heard the noise of some one trying to open 
the door, he turned and saw his mother’s face! The 
tools dropped from liis hands, and the dulcimer-boy was 
the only person present who had strength enough to open 
the door. 

How sudden, how powerful is the effect of joy I The 
mother, restored to her son, in a moment felt herself in- 
vigorated; and, forgetful of her fatigue, she felt herself 
another being. When she was left alone with her son, 
she looked round his little workshop with a mixture of 
pain and pleasure. She saw one of his unfinished boxes 
on the window-seat, which served him for a work-bench; 
his tools were upon the floor. “These have been my 
support,” said her son, taking them up : “ how much 
am I indebted to my dear father for teaching me early 
how to use them.” 

“Your father!” said Mad. de Rosier, “I wish he 
could have lived to be rewarded as I am ! But tell me 
your history from the moment you were taken from me 


142 


MORAL TALES 


to prison : it is nearly two years ago ; how did you 
escape? how have you supported yourself since ? Sit 
down, and speak again, that I may be sure that I hear 
your voice. 

“ You shall hear my voice, then, my dear mother,^’ 
said her son, “ for at least half an hour, if that will not 
tire you. I have a long story to tell you. In the first 
place, you know that I was taken to prison; three months 
1 spent in the Conciergerie, expecting every day to be 
ordered out to the guillotine. The jailer’s son, a boy 
about my own age, who was sometimes employed to 
bring me food, seemed to look upon me with compas- 
sion ; I had several opportunities of obliging him : his 
father often gave him long returns of the names of the 
prisoners and various accounts to copy into a large book ; 
the young gentleman did not like this work; he was 
much fonder of exercising as a soldier with some boys 
in the neighbourhood, who were learning the national 
exercise ; he frequently employed me to copy his lists 
for him, and this 1 performed to his satisfaction ; but 
what completely won his heart was my mending the 
lock of his fusil. One evening he came to me in a new 
uniform, and in high spirits; he was just made a cap- 
tain by the unanimous voice of his corps ; and he talked 
of his men, and his orders, with prodigious fluency; he 
then played his march upon his drum, and insisted upon 
leaching it to me ; he was much pleased with my per- 
formance, and suddenly embracing me he exclaimed, ‘I 
have thought of an excellenj; thing for you ; stay till I 
have arranged the plan in my head, and you shall see if 
I am not a great general.’ The next evening he did not 
come to me till it was nearly dusk; he was in his new 
uniform; but out of a bag which he brought in his 
liand, in which he used to carry his father’s papers, he 
produced his old uniform, rolled up into a surprisingly 
small compass. ‘I have arranged every thing,’ said he; 
‘put on this old uniform of mine — we are just of a size 
— by this light nobody will perceive any difference ; take 
my drum, and march out of the prison slowly ; beat my 
march on the drum as you go out; turn to the left, down 
to the Place de , where 1 exercise my men. You’ll 


/ 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


143 


iiteet with one of my soldiers there, ready to forward 
your escape.’ I hesitated ; for 1 feared that I should en- 
danger my young general j but he assured me that he 
had taken his precautions so admirably,^ that even after 
my escape should be discovered, no suspicion would fall 
upon him, ‘But if you delay,’ cried he, ‘ we are both of 
us undone,’ I hesitated not a moment longer, and never 
did I change my clothes so expeditiously in my life; I 
obeyed my little captain exactly, marched out of the 
prison slowly, playing deliberately the march which I 
had been taught ; turned to the left, according to orders, 
and saw my punctual guide waiting for me on the Place 
de , just by the broken statue of Henry the Fourth. 

‘“Follow me, fellow-citizen,’ said he^in a low voice; 
‘we are not all Robespierres.’ 

“Most joyfully I followed him. We tvalked on in 
silence till at length we came to a narro\V street, where 
the crowd was so great that I thought we should both of 
us have been squeezed to death, 1 saw the guillotine at 
a distance, and I felt sick, 

“ ‘Come on,’ said my guide, \vho kept Aist hold of 
me ; and he turned sharp into a yard, where I heard the 
noise of carts and the voices of muleteers, ‘This man,’ 
said he, leading me up to a muleteer, who seemed to be 
just ready to depart,* is my father; trust yourself tohim,’ 

“I had nobody else to trust myself to, I got into the 
muleteer’s covered cart ; he began a loud song ; we pro- 
ceeded through the square where the crowd were as- 
sembled, The enthusiasm of the moment occupied them 
so entirely, that we were fortunately disregarded. We 
got out of Paris safely : I will not tire you with all my 
terrors and escapes, I at length got on board a neutral 
vessel, and landed at Bristol, Escaped from prison and 
the fear of the guillotine, I thought myself happy; but 
my happiness was not very lasting, I began to appre- 
hend that I should be starved to death; I had not eaten 
for many hours, I wandered through the bustling streets 
of Bristol, where everybody I met seemed to be full of 
their own business, and brushed by me without seeing 
me, I was weak, and 1 sat down upon a stone by the 
door of a public house. 


144 


MORAL TALKS. 


“ A woman was twirling a mop at the door. I wiped 
away the drops with whicli I was sprinkled by this ope- 
ration. I was loo weak to be angry ; but a hairdresser, 
who was passing by, and who had a nicely powdered 
wig poised upon his hand, was furiously enraged, be- 
cause a few drops of the shower which had sprinkled me 
reached the wig. He expressed his anger half in French 
and half in English but at last I observed to him in 
French, that the wig was still ‘ bien poudree ^ — this calm- 
ed his rage ; and he remarked that 1 also had been hor- 
nhly drenched by the shower. I assured him that this 
was a trifle in comparison with my other sufferings. 

He begged to hear my misfortunes, because I spoke 
French; and as 1 followed him to the place where he 
was going with the wig, I told him that I had not eaten 
N for many hours ; that I was a stranger in Bristol, and 
had no means of earning any food. He advised me to 
go to a tavern, which he pointed out to me — ‘ The Rum- 
mer;^ — he told me a circumstance which convinced me 
of the humanity of the master of the house."* 

“ I resolved to apply to this benevolent man. When 
I first went into his kitchen I saw his cook, a man with 
a very important face, serving out a large turtle. Seve- 
ral people were waiting with covered dishes, for turtle 
soup and turtle, which had been bespoken in different 
parts of the city. The dishes, as fast as they were filled, 
continually passed by me, tantalizing me by their sa- 
voury odours. I sat down upon a stool near the fire — I 
saw food within my reach that honesty forbade me to 

* During Christmas week it is the custom in Bristol to keep a 
cheap ordinary in taverns: the master of tlie Rummer observed a 
stranger, meanly dressed, who constantly frequented the public table. 
It was suspected that he carried away some of the provision, and a 
waiter at length coinmnnicated his suspicions to the master of the 
house. He watched the stranger, and actually detected him putting 
a large mince-pie into his pocket. Instead of publicly e,\posing him, 
the landlord, who judged from the stransror’s manner that he was 
not an ordinary pilferer, called the man aside as he was going away, 
and charged him with the fact, demandins of him what could tempt 
him to such meanness. The poor man immediately acknowledged 
that lie had for several days carried off precisely what he would have 
eaten himself, for his starving wife, but he had eaten nothing. 

Tlie humane, considerate landlord, gently reproved him for his con 
duct, and soon found means to have him usefully and profitably eii>- 
ployed. 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


]45 


touch, though 1 was starving ; how easy is it to the rich 
to be honest ! I was at this time so weak, that my ideas 
began to be confused — my head grew dizzy — I felt the 
heat of the kitchen fire extremely disagreeable to me. 
I do not know what happened afterward ; but when I 
came to myself, I found that I was leaning against some 
one who supported me near an open window ; it was 
the master of the house. I do not know why I was 
ashamed to ask him for food ; his humanity, however, 
prevented me. He first gave me a small basin of broth, 
and afterward a little bit of bread, assuring me with infi- 
nite good nature, that he gave me food in such small 
quantities, because he was afraid that it would hurt me to 
satisfy my hunger at once — a worthy humane physiciarj, 
he said, had told him, that persons in my situation should 
be treated in this manner. I thanked him for his kind- 
ness, adding, that I did not mean to encroach upon his 
hospitality. He pressed me to stay at his house for 
some* days, but I could not think of being a burden to 
^ him, when I had strength enough to maintain myself. 

“ In the window of the little parlour, where I ate my 
broth, I saw a novel which had been left there by the 
landlord’s daughter, and in the beginning of this book 
was pasted a direction to the circulation library in Bris- 
tol. I was in hopes that I might earn my bread as a 
scnbe. The landlord of the Rummer told me that he 
was acquainted with the master of the library, and that 
I might easily procure employment from him on reason- 
able terms. 

“ Mr. S , for that was the name of the master of 

the library, received me with an air of encouraging be- 
nevolence, and finding that I could read and write Eng- 
lish tolerably well, he gave me a manuscript to copy, 
which he was preparing for the press. 1 worked hard, 
and made, as I fancied, a beautiful copy; but the print- 
ers complained of my upright French hand, which-they 
could not easily decipher ; — I began to new-model my 
writing, to please the taste of my employers; and as I 
had sufficient motives to make me take pains, I at last 
succeeded. I found it a great advantage to be able to 
read and write the English language fluently ; and when 

N 


/ 


146 


MORAL TALES. 


my employers perceived my education had not been 
neglected, and that I had some knowledge of literature, 
theii confidence in my abilities increased. I hope you 
v/ill not think me vain if I add, that I could perceive my 
manners were advantageous to me. I was known to be 
a gentleman’s son ; and even those who set but little 
value upon manners seomed to be influenced by them, 
without perceiving it. But, without pronouncing my 
own eulogium, let me content myself with telling you 
rny history. 

“ I used often, in carrying my day’s work to the print- 
er’s, to pass through a part of the town of Bristol which 
has been allotted to poor emigrants, and there I saw a 
variety of little ingenious toys, which were sold at a 
high price, or at a price which appeared to me to be 
high. I began to consider that I might earn money by 
invention, as well as by mere manual labour; but before 
I gave up any part of my time to my new schemes, I 
regularly wrote as much each day as was sufficient to 
maintain me. Now it was that I felt the advantage of 
having been taught, when I was a boy, ffie use of car- 
penter’s tools, and some degree of mechanical dexterity. 
I made several clumsy toys, and I tried various unsuc- 
cessful experiments, but I was not discouraged. One 
day I heard a dispute near me about some trinket — a 
tooth-pick case, 1 believe — which was thought by the 
purchaser to be too highly priced ; the man who made 
it repeatedly said, in recommendation of the toy — ‘ Why, 
sir, you could not know it from tortoise-shell.’ 

“ I, at this instant recollected to have seen, at the 
Rummer, a great heap of broken shells, which the cook 
had thrown aside, as if they were of no value. Upon 
inquiry, I found that there was part of the inside shell 
which was thought to be useless — it occurred to me that 
I might possibly make it useful. The good-natured 
landlord ordered that all this part of the shells should be 
carefully collected and given to me. I tried to polish it 
for many hours in vain. I was often tempted to abandon 
my project — there was a want finish, as the workmen 
call it, in my manufacture, which made me despair of 
its being saleable. I will not weary you with a history 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


147 


of all my unsuccessful processes; it was fortunate for 
me, my dear mother, that I remembered one of the prin- 
ciples which you taught me when I was a child, that it 
is not genius, but perseverance, which brings things to 
perfection. I persevered, and though I did not bring my 
manufacture \.o 'perfection, I actually succeeded so far as 
to make a very neat-looking box out of my refuse shells. 
I offered it for sale — it was liked ; T made several more 
and they were quickly sold for me, most advantageously, 

by my good friend, Mr. S . He advised me to make 

them in the shape of netting-boxes; I did so, and their 
sale extended rapidly. 

Some benevolent lady, about this time, raised a sub- 
scription for me; but as I had now an easy means of 
supporting myself, and as 1 every day beheld numbers 
of my, countrymen, nearly in the condition in which I 
was when I first went to the Rummer, I thought it was 
not fit to accept of the charitable assistance which could 

be so much better bestowed upon others. Mr. S told 

me, that the lady who raised the contribution, so far 
from being offended, was pleased by my conduct in de- 
clining her bounty, and she undertook to dispose of as 
many of my netting-boxes as I could finish. She was 
one of the patronesses of a repository in London, which 
has lately been opened, called the * Repository for In- 
genious Works.’ When she left Bristol, she desired 
Mr. S to send my boxes thither. 

My little manufacture continued to prosper — by prac- 
tice I grew more and more expert, and I had no longer 
any fears that I should not be able to maintain myself. 
It was fortunate for me that I was obliged to be constantly 
employed ; whenever I was not actually at hard work, 
whenever I had leisure for reflection, 1 was unhappy. 

‘‘A friend of Mr. S , who was going to London, 

offered to take me with him — I had some curiosity to 
see this celebrated metropolis, and I had hopes of meet- 
ing with some of my friends among the emigrants in this 
city — among all the emigrants at Bristol there was not 
one person with whom 1 had been acquainted in France. 

“ Impelled by these hopes I quilted Bristol, and arrived 

a few weeks ago in London. Mr. S gave inea direction 

41 


148 


MORAL TALES. 


to a cabinet-maker in Leicester Fields, and I was able to 
pay for a decent lodging, for I was now master ol wbat 
appeared to me a large sum of money — seven guineas. 

“ Some time after 1 came to town, as I was returning 
from a visit to an emigrant, with whom I had become 
acquainted, 1 was stopped at the corner of a street by a 
crowd of people — a moh, as I have been taught to call it, 
sihce 1 came to England — who had gathered round a 
blind man, a little boy, and a virago of a woman, who 
stood upon the steps before a print-shop door. The 
woman accused the boy of being a thief. The boy pro- 
tested that he was innocent, and his ingenuous counte- 
nance spoke strongly in his favour. He belonged to the 
blind man, who, as soon as he could make himself heard, 
complained bitterly of the damage which had been done 
to his dulcimer : the mob in their first fury had broken it. 
1 was interested for the rjian, but more for the boy. Per- 
haps, said I to myself, he has neither father nor mother ! 

“ When the tvoman who was standing yet furious at 
the shop-door, had no more words for utterance, the little 
boy was suffered to speak in his own defence. He said 
that, as he was passing by the open window of the print- 
shop, he put his hand in to give part of a bun which he 
was eating to a little dog, who w'as sitting on the coun- 
ter, near the window; and who looked thin and miser- 
able, as if he was half-starved. ^ But,’ continued the 
little boy, ‘when 1 put the biin to the dog’s mouth, he 
did not eat it; I gave him a little push to make him 
mind me, and he fell out of the window into my hands; 
and then I found that it was not a real dog, but only the 
picture of a dog painted upon pasteboard. The mis- 
tres3 of the shop saw the dog in ray hand, and snatched 
it away, and accused me of being a thief; so then, with 
the noise she made, the chairmen, who were near the 
door came up, and the mob gathered, and our dulcimer 
was broke, and Pm very sorry for it.’ The mistress of 
the print-shop observed, in a loud and contemptuous 
tone, ‘ that all this must be a lie, for that such a one as 
he could not have buns to give away to dogs!’ — Here 
the blind man vindicated his boy, by assuring us that 
he came honesilji by the bun — that two buns had beee 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 


149 


given to him about an hour before this time by a young 
gentleman who met him as he was corning out of a 
pastry-cook’s shop.’ When the mob heard this expla- 
nation, they were sorry for the mischief they had done 
to the blind man’s dulcimer; and, after examining it 
with expressions of sorrow, they quietly dispersed. I 
thought that I could perhaps mend the dulcimer, and I 
offered my services ; they were gladly accepted, and I 
desired the man to leave it at the cabinet-maker’s in 
Leicester fhelds, where I lodged. Jn the mean time the 
little boy, while 1 had been examining the dulcimer, had 
been wiping the dirt from off the pasteboard dog, which, 
during the fray, had fallen into the street — ‘ Is it not like 
a real dog?’ said the boy ; ^ Was it not enough to deceive?’ 

“It was, indeed, extremely like a real dog — like my 
dog, Caesar, whom I had taken care of from the time I 
was five years old, and whom I was obliged to leave 
at our house in Paris, when I was dragged to prison. 
The more I looked at this pasteboard image, the more I 
was convinced that the picture must have been drawn 
from the life. Every streak, every spot, every shade 
of its brown coat I remembered. Its extreme thinness 
was the only circumstance in which the picture was un- 
like my Caesar. I inquired from the scolding woman 
of the shop how she came by this picture — ‘Honestly,’ 
was her laconic answer; but when I asked her whether 
it were to be sold, and when I paid its price, the lady 
changed her tone, no longer considering me as the par- 
tisan of the little boy against whom she was enraged, 
but rather looking upon me as a customer, who had paid 
too much for her goods, she condescended to inform me 
that the dog was painted by one of the ;joor French emi- 
grants who lived in her neighbourhood. She directed 
me to the house, and I discovered the man to be my 
father’s old servant Michael. He was overjoyed at the 
sight of me; he was infirm, and unequal to any laborious 
employment; he had supported himself with great diffi- 
culty by painting toys, and figures of men, women, and 
animals upon pasteboard. He 'showed me two excellent 
figures of French poissardes, and also a good cat of his 
doing ; — but my Caesar was the best of his works. 

n2 ' 


150 


MORAL TALES. 


‘‘My lodgings ai the cabinet-maker’s were too small 
to accomodate Michael ; and yet I wished to have him 
with me, for he seemed so infirm as to want assistance : 
I consequently left my cabinet-maker, and look lodgings 
with this stationer : he and his wife are quiet people, 
and I hope poor Michael has been happier since he came 
to me : he has, however, been for some days confined to 
his bed, and I have been so busy that I have not been 
able to stir from home. To-day the poor little boy called 
for his dulcimer; I must own that I found it a more dif- 
ficult job (0 mend it than I expected. I could not match 
the wire, and I sent the boy out to an ironmonger’s a 
few hours ago. How little did I expect to see him re- 
turn with — my mother !” 

We shall not attempt to describe the alternate emotions 
of joy and sorrow which quickly succeeded each other 
in Mad. de Rosier’s heart while she listened to her son’s 
little history. Impatient to communicate her happiness 
to her friends, she took leave hastily of her beloved son, 
promising to call for him early the next day. “ Settle 
all your business to-night,” said she, and “ I will intro- 
duce you to my friends to-morrow. My friends, I say 
proudly ; for I have made friends since 1 came to Eng- 
land ; and England, among other commodities excellent 
in their kind, produces incomparable friends — friends in 
adversity. JVe know their value. Adieu ; settle all 
your affairs here expeditiously.” 

“ I have no affairs, no business, my dear mother,” 
interrupted Henry, “except to mend the dulcimer, as I 
promised, and that I’ll finish directly. Adieu, till to- 
morrow morning! AVhat a delightful sound 

With all the alacrity of benevolence, he returned to 
his work, and his mother returned to Mrs. Harcourt’s. 
Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda met her with in- 
quiring eyes. 

“She smiles!” said Matilda; and Herbert, with a 
higher jump than he had ever been known to make be- 
fore, exclaimed, “She has found her son ! — I am sure 
of it ! — I knew she would find him.” 

“Let her sit down,” said Matilda, in a gentle voice. 

Isabella brought her an excellent dish of coflee ; and 


THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. /51 

Mrs. Harcourt, with kind reproaches, asked why she 
had not brought her son home with her. She rang the 
bell with as much vivacity as she spoke, ordered her 
coach to be sent instantly to Golden- square, and wrote 
an order, as she called it, for his coming immediately to 
her, quitting all dulcimers and dulcimer-boys, under pain 
of his mother’s displeasure. Here, Mad. de Rosier,” 
said she, with peremptory playfulness, “ countersign my 
order, that I may be sure of my prisoner.” 

Scarcely were the note and carriage despatched, before 
Herbert and Favoretta stationed themselves at the win- 
dow, that they might be ready to give the first intelli- 
gence. Their notions of time and distance were not very 
accurate upon this occasion ; for before the carriage had 
been out of sight ten minutes they expected it to return ; 
and they exclaimed, at the sight of every coach that ap- 
peared at the end of the street, “Here’s tKe carriage! — 
Here he is!” But the carriages rolled by continually, 
and convinced them of their mistakes. 

Herbert complained of the dull light of the lamps, 
though the street was remarkably well lighted; and he 
* next qqarrelled with the glare of the flambeaux, which 
footmen brandished behind carriages that were unknown 
to him. At length a flambeau appeared with which he 
did not quarrel. Herbert, as its light shone upon the 
footman, looked with an eager eye, then pul his finger 
upon his own lips, and held his other hand forcibly be- 
fore Favoretta’s mouth, for now he was certain. The 
coach stopped at the door — Mad. de Rosier ran down 
stairs — Mrs. Harcourt and all the family followed her- — 
Herbert was at the coach-door before Henry de Rosier 
could leap out, and he seized his hand with all the fami- 
liarity of an old acquaintance. 

The sympathy of all her joyful pupils, the animated 
kindness with which Mrs. Harcourt received her son, 
touched Mad. de Rosier with the most exquisite pleasure. 
The happiness that we are conscious of having deserved 
is doubly grateful to the heart. 

Mrs. Harcourt did not confine her attentions within 
the narrow limits of politeness, — with generous eager- 
ness she exerted herself to show her gratitude to the 

41 * 


152 


MORAL TALES. 


excellent governess of her children. She applied to the 
gentleman who was at the head of the academy for the 
education of the sons of French emigrants, and recom- 
mended Henry de Rosier to him m the strongest terms. 

In the mean time Lady N , who had been warmly 

interested in Mad. de Rosier’s favour — and more by what 
she had seen of her pupils — wrote to her brother, who 
was at Paris, to request that he would make every pos- 
sible inquiry concerning the property of the late Compte 
de Rosier. The answer to her letter informed her that 
Mad. de Rosier’s property was restored to her and to her 
son by the new government of France. 

Mrs. Harcourt, who now foresaw the probability of 
Mad. de Rosier’s return to France, could not avoid feel- 
ing regret at thoughts of parting with a friend to whom 
her whole family was sincerely attached. The plan of 
education which had been traced out remained yet un- 
finished ; and she feared, she said, that Isabella and 
Matilda might feel the want of their accomplished pre- 
ceptress. But these fears were the best omens for her 
future success : a sensible mother, in whom the desire to 
educate her family hi\s once been excited, and Avho turns 
the energy of her mind to this interesting subject, seizes 
upon every useful idea'-, every practical principle, with 
avidity, and she may, trust securely to her own perse- 
vering cares. Whatever a mother learns for the sake 
of her children, she never forgets. 

The rapid improvement of Mrs. Harcourt’s under- 
standing since she had applied herself to literature was 
her reward and her excitement to freslv application. 
Isabella and Matilda were now of an age to be her com- 
panions, and her taste for domestic life was confirmed 
every day by the sweet experience of its pleasures. 

‘‘You have taught me your value, and now you are 
going to leave me,” said she to Mad. de Rosier. “ I 
quarrelled with the Duke de Rochefoucault for his as- 
serting that in the misfortunes of our best friends there 
IS always something that is not disagreeable to us ; but 
I am afraid I must stand convicted of selfishness, for in 
the good fortune of my best friend there is something 
that I cannot feel to be perfectly agreeable.” 



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THE KNAPSACK. 


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DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

CoDNT Helmaar, a Swedish Nobleman. 

Christiern, a Swedish Soldier. 

Aleftson, Count Helmaar s Fool. 

Thomas, a Footman. . . 

Eleonora, a Swedish Lady, beloved by Count Helmaar, 
Christina, Sister to Helmaar. 

Ulrica, an old Housekeeper. 

Catherine, Wife to Christiern. 

Ulric and Kate, the Son and Daughter of Catherine: they art 
six and seven years old. 

Sergeant, and a Troop of Soldiers, a Train of Dancerg^ 
a Page, (J-c. 


\ 


154 


s 

I 

THE KNAPSACK* 


ACT I. 

SCENE — A cottage in Sweden. — Catherine, a young 
and handsome woman, is sitting at her spinning-wheel. 
— A little Boy and Girl, of six and seven years of age, 
are seated on the gi'ound eating their dinner. 

Catherine sings, while she is spinning. 

Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me, 

The wife that fondly waits for thee ; 

, * Lon^ are the years, and long each day, 

While my loved soldier’s far away. 

Haste from the wars, &c. 

I.one ev’ry field, and lone the bower; 

Pleasant to me nor sun nor shower ; 

The snows are gone, the flowers are gay ; 

Why is my life of life away 1 

Haste from the wars, &c.' 

Little Girl. When will father come homel 
Little Boy. When will he come, mother? when, to- 
day ? to-morrow? 

Cath. No, not to-day, nor to-morrow ; but soon, I 
hope, very soon ; for they say the wars are over. 

Little Girl. I am glad of that, and when father 
comes home, PIl give him some of my flowers. 

Little Boy. (who is still eating). And I’ll give him 
some of my bread and cheese, which he’ll like better 


* In the Travels of M. Beanjolin in Sweden, he mentions having, 
in the year 1790, met carriages laden with the knapsacks of Swedish 
soldiers who had fallen in battle in Finland. These carriages were 
escorted by peasants who were relieved at every stage, and thus the 
property of the deceased was conveyed from one extremity of the 
kingdom to the other, and faithfully restored to their relations. The 
Swedish peasants are so remarkably honest, that scarcely any thing 
is ever lost in these convoys of numerous and ill-secured packages. 

155 


156 


MORAL TALES. 


than flowers, if he is as hungry as I^im; and that to l)€ 
sure he will be, after coming such a long, long journey. 

Little Girl. Long, long journey ! how long? — how 
far is father off, mother? — where is he? ^ 

Little Boy. I know, he is in — in — in — in — in Fin- 
land? how far off, mother ? 

Cath. A great many miles, my dearj I don’t know 
how many. 

Little Boy. Is it not two miles to the great house, 
mother, where we go to sell our fagots ? 

Cath. Yes, about two miles — and now you had best 
set out towards the great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, 
the housekeeper, to pay you the little bill she owes you 
for fagots — there’s good children ; and when you have 
been paid for your fagots, you can call at the baker’s, 
m the village, and bring home some bread for to-mor- 
row — (patting the little boy\s head) — you that love bread 
and cheese so much must work hard to get it. 

Little Boy. Y?s, so I will work hard, then I shall 
have enough for myself and father too, when he comes. 
Come along — come — ^to his sister)— and as we come 
home through the forest. I’ll show you where we can 
get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we’ll help one 
another. 

Little Girl sings. 

That’s the best way, 

At work and at play, 

To help one another — I heard mother say — 

To help one another— I heard mother say. 

[T/ie children go off, singing these words. 

Cath. {alone). Dear, good children, how happy their 
father will be to see them, when he comes back! — {She 
begins to eat the remains of the dinner which the children 
have left.) The little rogue was so hungry, he has not 
left me much ; but he would have left me all, if he had 
thought that I wanted it : he shall have a good large hotel 
of milk for supper. It was but last night he skimmed 
the cream off his milk for me, because he thought I liked 
it. Heigho ! — God knows how long they may have 
milk to skim— as long as I can work they shall never 
want; but I’m not so strong as I used to be; but then I 


THE KNAPSACK. 


157 


shall get strong, and all will be well, when my husband 
comes back (a drum heats at a distance). Hark! a drum ! 
— some news from abroad, perhaps — nearer and nearer 
(she sinks upon a cJutir) — why cannot I run to see — lo 
ask (the drum heats louder and louder) — fool that I api ! 
they will be gone I they will be all gone ! (she starts up.) 

[Exit hastily. 

SCENE changes to a high road, leading to a village. — 

•/2 party of ragged, tired soldiers, marching slowly. 

Sergeant ranges them. 

Sei'g. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have 
not a great way farther to go: keep on, my brave fel- 
lows, keep on, through yonder village. (The drum heats.) 

[Soldiers exeunt. 

Serg. (alone). Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see 
them! the sad remains, these, of as fine a regiment as 
ever handled a musket. Ah ! I’ve seen them march quite 
another guess sort of way, when they marched, and I 
among them, to face the enemy — heads up — step firm — 
thus it was — q uick time — march ! — (he marches proudly) 
— My poor felloAvs, how they lag now (looking after 
•them) — ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower; they 
don’t like going through the village ; nor 1 neither; for, 
at every village we pass through, out come the women 
and children, running after us, and crying, “ Where’s 
my father? — What’s become of my husband?” — Stout 
fellow as I am, and a sergeant too, that ought to know 
better, and seMie others an example, I can’t stand these 
questions. 

Enter Catherine, breathless. 

Cath. I — I — I’ve overtaken him at last. — Sir*— Mr. 
Sergeant, one word! What news I'rom Finland? 

Serg. The best — the war’s over. — Peace is proclaimed. 

Cath. (clasping her hands joyfully). Peace! happy 
sound! — Peace! The war’s over! — Peace! — And the 
regiment of Ileiraaar — (The Sergeant appears anxious 
to get away) — Only one word, good sergeant: when 
will the regiment of Helmaar be back? 

Serg. All that remain of it will be home next week, 
o 


. »58 


MORAL TALES. 


Cath. Next week! — But all that remain, did you 
f;ay ? — Then many have been killed ? 

Serg. Many, many — too many. Some honest pea- 
sants are bringing home the knapsacks of those who 
have fallen in battle. ’Tis fair that what little they had 
should come home to their families. Now, I pray you, 
let me pass on. 

Cath. One word more : tell me, do you know, in the 
regiment of Helmaar, one Christiern Aleftson 1 

Serg. (xoilh eagerness). Christiern Aleftson ! as brave 
a fellow, and as good, as ever lived, if it be the same as 
I knew. 

Cath. As brave a fellow, and as good, as ever lived! 
O, that’s he! he is my husband — where is he! where 
is he? 

Serg. (aside). She wrings my heart! — (aloud). He 
was — 

Cath. Was ! 

Serg. He is, I hope, safe. 

Cath. You hope ! — don’t look away — I must see your 
face : tell me all you know. 

Serg. I know nothing for certain. — When the pea- 
sants come with the knapsacks, you will hear all from 
them. Pray you let me follow my men ; they are already 
at a greafdistance. [Exit Serg. followed hy Catherine. 

Cath. I will not detain you an instant — only one 
word more — [^Exit. 

SCENE — An apartment in Count Helmaar^s Castle — A 

train of dancers. — After they have danced for some time, 

Enter a Page. 

Page. Ladies! I have waited, according to youi 
commands, till Count Helmaar appeared in the ante- 
chambe- -he is there now, along with the ladies Chris- 
tina and Eleonora. 

Is^ Dancer. Now is our time — Count Helmaar shall 
hear our song to welcome him home. 

2d Dancer. None was ever more welcome. 

3d Dancer. But stay till I have breath to sing. 


THE KNAPSACK. 


159 


SONG. 

I. 

Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home ; 

In crowds your happy neighbours come, ^ 

To hail with joy the cheerful morn 
That sees their Helmaar’s safe return. 

IT. 

No hollow heart, no borrowed face. 

Shall ever Helmaar’s hall disgrace . 

Slaves alone on tyrants wait ; 

Friends surround the good and great. 

Enter Eleonora, Christina, and Count Helmaar. 

Helmaar. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome. 

Dancer, (looking at ablackjillet on Helmaar' s head) 
He has been wounded. 

Christina. Yes — severely wounded. 

Helmaar. And had it not been for the fidelity of the 
soldier who carried me from the field of battle, I should 
never have seen you more, my friends, nor you, my 
charming Eleonora. noise of one singing behind the 
scenes.') What disturbance is that without'? 

Christina. ^Tis only Aleftson, the fool. In your ab- 
sence, brother, he has been the cause of great diversion 
in the castle : I love to play upon him, it keeps him in 
tune; you can^t think how much good it does him. 

Helmaar. And how much good it does you, sister ; 
from your childhood you had always a lively wit, and 
loved to exercise it; but do you waste it upon fools? 

Christina. Pm sometimes inclined to think this Aleft- 
son is more knave than fool. 

Eicon. By your leave. Lady Christina, he is no knave, 
or I am much mistaken. To my knowledge, he has car- 
ried his whole salary, and all the little presents he has 
received from us, to his brother’s wife and children. I 
have seen him chuck his money, thus, at those poor chil- 
dren when they have been at their plays, and then run 
away, lest their mother’should make them give it back. 

Enter Aleftson, the Fool, in a fool's coat, fool's cap and 
bells, singing. 

I. 

There’s the courtier who watches the nod of the groat. 

Who thinks much of his pension and naught of the state ; 

When for ribands and titles his honour he sells — 

What is he, my friends, but a fool without bellsl 


42 


160 


MORAL -TALES. 


II. \ 

There’s the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die 
Ilis house and'his acres, the devil knows why ; 

His acres he loses, liis forests he sells — 

What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells “J 

III. 

There’s the student so crabbed and wonderful wise, 

With his. plus and his minus, his I’s and y’s ; 

Pale at midnight he pores o’er his magical spells — 

What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells'? 

IV. 

The lover, who’s ogling, and rhyming, and sighing. 

Who’s musing, and pining, and whining, and dying ; 

When a thousand of lies every minute he tells — 

What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells I 

V. 

There’s the lady so fine, with her air and her graces, 

With a face like an angel’s — if angels have faces; 

She marries, and Hymen the vision dispels — 

What’s her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells 1 

Christina, Eleonora, Hclmaar, Sfc. BravO ! 'bravissi- 
mo ! excellent fool ! Encore ! 

[T/ie Fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly. 

Christina. What now, Aleftson ? I never saw you 
sad before : what’s the matter ? Speak. 

l^Fool sobs, but gives no answer. 

Helm. W’’hy do you weep so bitterly ? 

Aleft. Because I am a fool. 

Helm. Many should weep if that were cause sufficient. 

Eicon. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, 
been a merry fool. 

Fool. Because always till now I was a fool, but now 
I am grown wise ; and ’tis difficult to all but you, lady, 
to be merry and wise. 

Chnstina. A pretty compliment: ’tis a pity it was 
paid by a fool. 

Fool. Who else should pay compliments, l,ady, or 
who else believe them ? 

Christina. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a 
fool to speak the truth without offence. 

Fool. Fool as you take me to be, I’m not fool enough 
yet to speak truth to a lady, and think to do it without 
offence. 

Eicon. Why, you have said a hundred severe things 
lo me w’ithin this week, and have I ever been angry with 
you? 


THE KNAPSACK. 


161 


Fool. Never; for out of the whole hundred not one 
was true. But have a care, lady — foci as I am, you’d 
be glad to stop a fool’s mouth with your white hand this 
instant, rather than let him tell the truth of you. 

Christina (laughing, and all the other ladies, except Ele- 
onora exclaim). Speak on, good fool, speak on. 

Helm. I 'am much mistaken, or the Lady Eleonora 
fears not to hear the truth from either wise men or fools 
— Speak on. 

Fool. One day, not long ago, when there came news 
that our count there was killed in Finland — I, being a 
fool, was lying laughing, and thinking of nothing at all, 
on the door in the west drawing-room, looking at the 
count’s picture — in comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears. 

Eleon. (stopping his mouth). O, tell any thing but that, 
good fool. 

Helm, (kneels andkisses her hand). Speak on, excellent 
fool. ^ 

Christina and ladies. Speak on, excellent fool. In 
came the Lady Eleonora, all in tears. 

Fool. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears — (pauses 
and looks round) — Why now, what makes you all so 
curious about these tears? — Tears are but salt-water, let 
them come from what eyes they will : my tears are as 
good as hers.' In came John Aleftson, all in tears, just 
now, and nobody kneels to me— nobody kisses my hands 
^ — nobody cares half a straw for my tears — (folds his arms 
and looks melancholy). I am not one of those — I know 
the cause of my tears too well. 

Helm. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected 
return, hey? 

Fool, (scornfully) . No; I am not such a fool as that 
comes to. Don’t I know that when you are at home the 
poor may hold up their heads, and no journeyman-gen- 
tleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing those 
who live in cottages? No, no ; I am not such a fool as 
to cry because Count Helmaar is come back ; but the 
truth is, I cried because I am tired and ashamed of wear- 
ing this thing — (throwing down his fool's cap upon the 
Jloor, changes his tone entirely) — I! who am brother to 


162 


MORAL TALES, 


the man who saved Count Helmaai’s life! 1 to wear a 
fooPs cap and bells — O shame ! shame I 
[ The ladies look at one another ivith signs of astonishment. 

Christina (aside). A lucid interval: poor fool! I will 
torment him no more — he has feeling : ’twere better he 
had none. 

Eleon. Hush ! hear him ! 

Aleft. (throwing himself at the counthfeet). Noble count, 
I have submitted to be thought a fool ; I have worn this 
fooFs cap in your absence that I might indulge m'y hu- 
mour, and enjoy the liberty of speaking my mind freely 
to the people of all conditions. Now that you are re- 
turned, I have no need of such a disguise : I may now 
speak the truth without fear, and without a cap and bells. 
I resign my salary, and give back the ensign of my office. 
— (presents the fooVs cop). [Exit. 

Christina. He might well say that none but fools 
should pay compliments; this is the best compliment 
that has been paid you, brother. 

Eleon. And observe, he has resigned his salary. 

Helm. Fr®m this moment let it be doubled : he made 
an excellent use of money when he was a fool ; may he 
make half as good a use of it now he is a wise man. 

Christina. Amen! And now I hope 'we are to have 
some more dancing. \^Excunt. 


ACT ir. 

SCENE — By moonlight — a forest — a castle illuminated - 
at a distance. A group of peasants seated on the ground 
each ivith a knapsack beside him. One peasant lies 
stretched on the ground. 

\st Peasant. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the 
cart being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles 
there in that plight — (points to the sleeping peasant) — it 
is a folly to think of getting on farther this evening. 

2d Peasant. And what 1 say is, it’s folly to sleep here, 
seeing I know the country, and am certain sure we have 
not above one mile at farthest to go before we get to the 
end of our journey. 


THE KNAPSACK. 163 


IsJ Peasant {pointing to the sleeper). He can’t walk a 
mile : he’s done for — dog-tired — 

Sd Peasant. Are you certain sure we have only one 
mile farther to go 1 

2d Peasant. Certain sure — 

All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant. O, let us 
go on, then, and we can carry the knapsacks on our 
backs for this one mile. 

ls^ Peasant. You must carry him, then, knapsack and 
all. ^ 

All together. So we will. 

2d Peasant. But first, do you see, let’s waken him ; for 
a sleeping man’s twice as heavy as one that’s awake. 
Holla, friend ! waken ! waken ! {He shakes the sleeper, 
who snores loudly) — Good Lord ! he snores loud enough to 
waken all the birds in the wood ! [All the peasants shout 
in the sleeper’s ear, and he starts up, shaking himself. 

Charles. Am I awake? (stretching.) 

2d Peasant. No, not yet, man. Why, don’t you know 
where you are? Ay — here’s the moon; and these be 
trees ; and — I be a man ; and what do you,call this? — 
(holding up a knapsack.) 

Charles. A knapsack, I say, to be sure : I’m as broad 
awake as the best of you. 

2d Peasant. Come on, then ; we’ve a great way farther 
to go before you sleep again. 

Charles. A great way farther! farther to night ! — No, 


no. 

2d Peasant. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were 
fast asleep : you are to be carried, you and your knap- 
sack. [ They prepare to carry him. 

Charles (starting tip, and struggling with them). I’ve 
legs to walk; I won’t be carried. I, a Swede, and be 
carried ! No, no. 

All together. Yes! Yes! 

Charles. No, no! — (he struggles for his knapsack, which 
comes untied in the struggle, and all the things fall out.) 
There, this comes of playing the fool. 

[ They help him to pick up the things and exclaim. 

All. There’s no harm done — (throwing' the knapsack 
over his shoulder.) 

42 * 


164 


MORAL TALES. 


Charles. Prn the first to march, after all. , 

Peasants. Ay, in your sleep! [Exeunt, laughing. 

Enter Catherine’s two little Children. 

Little Girl, f am sure I heard some voices this way. 
Suppose it was the fairies ! 

Little Boy. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There 
are no such things as fairies ; but if there were any such, 
we have no need to fear them. 

Little Boy sings. 

I. 

Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm. 

Have power, or will, to work us harm; 

For those who dare the truth to tell. 

Fays, elves, and fairies wish them well. 

II. 

For us they spread their dainty fare, 

For us they scent the midnight air; 

For us their glow-worm lamps they light, f 

For us their music cheers the night. 

Little Girl sings. 

* I. 

Ye fays and fairies, hasten here, 

Robed in glittering gossamere ; 

With tapers bright, and music sweet. 

And frolic dance, and twinkling feet. 

II. 

And, little Mable, let ns view 
Your acorn goblets filled with dew ; 

Nor warn us hence till we have seen 
The nut-shell chariot of your queen. t 

III. 

In which on nights of yore she sat. 

Driven by her gray-coated gnat; . 

With spider spokes and cobweb traces 
And horses fit for fairy races. 

IV. ^ 

And bid us join your revel ring. 

And see you dance, and hear you sing: 

Your fairy dainties let us taste, 

And speed us home with fairy haste. 

Little Boy, If there were really fairies, and if they 
would give me my wish, I know what I should ask. 

Little Girl. And so do I : I would ask them to send 
father home before I could count ten. 


THE KNAPSACK. 


135 


Little Boy. And I would ask to hear his general say to 
him, in the face of the whole army, ‘‘This is a brave 
man !” And father should hold up his head as I do now, 
and march thus by the side of his general. 

the little Boy marches, he stumbles. 

Little Girl. Oh, take care ! Come, let us march home ; 
but stay, I have not found my fagot. 

Little Boy. Never mind your fagot : it was not here 
you left it. 

Little Girl. Yes, it was somewhere here, I’m sure, 
and I must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make 
a blaze for her before she goes to bed. 

Little Boy. But she will wonder what keeps us so late. 

Little Girl. But we shall tell her what keeps us. Look 
under those trees, will you, while I look here, for my 
fagot. When we get home, I shall say, “ Mother, do 
you know there is great news? There’s a great many, 
many candles in the windows of the great house, and 
dancing and music in the great house, because the mas- 
ter’s come home, and the housekeeper had not time to 
pay us, and we waited and waited with our fagots ! At 
last the butler” — 

Little Boy. Heyday! what have we here? A purse, 
a purse — a heavy purse! 

Little Girl. Whose can it be? Let us carry it home 
to mother. 

Little Boy. No, no — it can’t be mother’s : mother has 
no purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at 
the great house. 

Little Girl. Ay, very likely to Dame Ulrica, the house- 
keeper ; for she has more purses and money than any- 
body else in the world. 

Little Boy. Come, let us run back with it to her — 
mother would tell us to do so, I am sure, if she was here. 

Little Girl. But I’m afraid the housekeeper won’t see 
us to-night. 

Little Boy. O yes ; but I’ll beg, and pray, and push, 
till I get into her room. 

Little Girl. Yes; but don’t push me, or I shall knock 
my head against the trees. Give me your hand, brother. 
O my fagot! I shall never find you. [Exeunt. 


166 


MORAL TALES. 


SCENE — Catherine’s Cottage. 

Catherine, spinning, sings. 

I. 

Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel, 

And leave my heart no time to feel ; 

Companion of my widowed hour, 

TNIy only friend, my only dower. 

II. 

Thy lengthening thread I love to see, 

Thy whirring sound is dear to me ; 

O, swiftly turn by night and day, 

And toil for him that’s far away. 

Catherine. Hark! here come the children. No, ’twas 
only the wind. What can keep these children so late? 
But it is a fine moonlight night: they’ll have brave ap- 
petites for their supper when they come back. But I 
wonder they don’t come home. Heigho ! since their 
father has been gone, I am grown a coward — (a knock 
at the door heard}. Come in ! Why does every knock 
at the door startle me in this way? 

Enter Charles with a knapsack on his back. 

Charles. Mistress! mayhap you did, not expect to see 
a stranger at this time o’night, as I guess by the looks 
of ye — but I’m only a poor fellow, that has been a-foot a 
great many hours. . 

Cath. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as 
we have, you’re welcome to. 

[She sets milk, ^'C. on a table. Charles throws hinh- 
self into a chair, and flings his knapsack behind him. 

Charles. ’Tis a choice thing to rest one’s self: — I say, 
mistress, you must know, I, and some more of us, pea- 
sants, have come a many, many leagues since break of 
day. 

Cath. Indeed, you may well be tired — and where do 
you come from ? — Did you meet on your road any sol- 
diers coming back from Finland? 

Charles (eats and speaks). Not the soldiers themselves, 
I can’t say as I did ; but we are them that are bringing 
home the knapsacks of the poor fellows that have lost 
their lives in the wars in Finland. 


THE KNAPSACK. 


167 


Catherine (during this speech of Charles, leans on the 
back of a chair. — Aside). Now I shall know my fate. 

Charles (eating and speaking.) My comrades are gone 
on to the village beyond with their knapsacks, to get 
them owned by the families of them to whom they be- 
longed, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistrsss, 
as you know the folks hereabouts, could you ^11 me 
whose knapsack this is, here, behind me? — (looking up 
at Catherine.) — Oons, but how pale she looks ! (aside.) 
Here, sit ye down, do. (Aside.) Why I would not have 
said a word if I had thought on it — to be sure she has a 
lover now, that has been killed in the wars. (Aloud.) 
Take a sup of the cold milk, mistress. 

Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack.) ’Tis 
his! ^tis my husband’s! 

[ She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with 
her hands. 

Charles. . Poor soul! poor soul! — (he pauses.) But 
now it is not clear to me that you may not be mistaken, 
mistress : — these knapsacks be all so much alike, I’m 
sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from t’other 
— it is by what’s in the inside only one can tell for cer- 
tain, ( Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, 
carries it towards Catherine, and holds it before her face.) 
— Look ye here, noAv ; don’t give way to sorrow while 
there’s hope left. — Mayhap, mistress — look at this now, 
can’t ye, mistress ? 

\_Catherine timidly moves her lumds from before her face, 
sees the waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls 
back in a swoon. The peasant runs to support her. 
At this instant the hack door of the cottage opens, 
and Aleftson enters. 

Aleft. Catherine! 

Charles. Poor soul ! — there, raise her head — give her 
air— she fell into this swoon at the sight of yonder knap- 
sack — her husband’s — he’s dead. Poor creature ! — ’twas 
my luck to bring the bad news — what shall we do for 
her! — I’m no better than a fool, when I see a body this 
way. 

Meft. (.sprinkling icater on her face). She’ll be as well 
as ever she was, you’ll see, presently — leave her to me! 


168 


MORAL TALES. 


Charles. There! she gave a sigh — she^s coming lo 
her senses. [Cathenne raises herself. 

Cath. What has been the matter! — (S/ie starts at the 
sight of Meftson.) — My husband! — no — ’lis Alefison — 
what makes you look so like him? — you don’t look like 
yourself. 

Meft. (aside to the peasant.) Take that waistcoat out 
of the way. 

Cath. (looking round sees the knapsack). What’s 
there — O, I recollect it all now. — (To Aleftson.) Look 
there! look there! your brother! your brother’s dead ! 
Poor fool, you have no feeling. 

Aleft. I wish I had none. 

Cath. O my husband ! — shall I never, never see you 
more — never more hear your voice — never more see my 
children in their father’s arms ? 

Meft. (takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are 
fixed). But we are not sure this is Christiern’s. 

Charles (snatching it from him). Don’t show it to her 
again, man ! — you’ll drive her mad. * 

Meft. (aside). Let me alone; I know what I’m about. 
— (Moiid.) ’Tis certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him 
wear; but perhaps — 

Cath. It is his — it is his — too well I know it — my own 
work — I gave it to him the very day he went away to 
the wars — he told me he would wear it again the day 
of his coming home — but he’ll never come home again. 

Aleft. How can you be sure of that? 

Cath. How ! — why, am I not sure, too sure? — hey! 
— what do you mean? — he smiles! — have you heard 
any thing ? — do you know any thing ? — but he can know 
nothing — he can tell me nothing — he has no sense.— 
(She turns to the peasant.) Where did you get this knap- 
sack? — did you see — 

Meft. He saw nothing — he knows nothing — he can 
tell you nothing listen to me, Catherine — see, I have 
thrown aside the dress of a fool — you know I had my 
senses once — I have them now as clear as ever I had in 
my life — ay, you may well be surprised — but I will sur- 
prise you more — Count Helmaar’s come home. 

Cath. Count Helmaar ! — impossible ! 


THE KNAPSACK. 


109 


Charles. Count Helmaar! — he was killed in the last 
battle in Finland. 

Aleft. I tell ye he was not killed in any battle — he 
is safe at home — I have just seen him. 

Cath. Seen him ! — but why do I listen to him, poor 
fool ! he knows not what he says — and yet, if the count 
be really alive — 

Charles. Is the count really alive? I’d give my best 
cow to see him. 

tAleft. Ccme with me, then, and in one quarter of an 
hour you shall see him. 

Cath. (clasping her hands). Then there is hope for me 
— ^Tell me, is there any news? 

Meft. There is. 

Cath. Of my husband ? 

^ Meft. Yes — ask me no more — you must hear the rest 
from Count Helmaar himself — he has sent for you. 

Cath. (springs forward). This instant let me go, let 
me hear — (she stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, 
which lies in her passage). — But what shall I hear? — there 
can be no good news for me — this speaks too plainly. 

[Meftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away. 

Charles. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, 
along with you — I won’t be left behind — I’m wide awake 
now — I must have a sight of Count Helmaar in his own 
castle — why, they’ll make much of me in every cottage 
on my road home, when I can swear to ’em I’ve seen 
Count Helmaar alive, in his own castle, face to face — 
God bless him, he’s the poor man's fiend. [Exeunt. 

SCENE — The housekeeper's room in Count Helmaar’s 
Castle. 

Ulrica and Christiern. 

Christiern is drawing on his hoots. — Mrs. Ulrica is 
sitting at a tea-tahle, making coffee. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Well, well ; I’ll say no more : if you 
can’t stay to-night, you can’t — but I had laid it all out 
in my head so cleverly, that you should stay, and take a 

p 


170 


/ MORAL TALES. 


good night’s rest here, in the castle ; then, in the morn- 
ing, you’ll find yourself as fresh as a lark. 

Christiem. O! I arn not at all tired. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Not tired ! don’t tell me that, now, for I 
know that you are tired, and can’t help being tired, say 
what you will. — Drink this dish of cofiee, at any rate — 
(lie drinks coffee.) 

Christiern. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine 
and my little ones — 

Mrs. Ulrica. Very true, very true: but, in one word, I 
.want to see the happy meeting, for such things are a 
treat to me, and don’t come every day, you know ; and 
now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the 
cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared 
out this night, on no account or possibility. 

Enter Footman. , * 

Footman. Ma’am, the cook is hunting high and low 
for the brandy-cherries. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me ! are not they there before 
those eyes of yours ? — But I can’t blame nobody for be- 
ing out of their wits a little with joy on such a night as 
this. [Exit Footman. 

Chnstiem. Never was man better beloved in the regi- 
ment than Count Helmaar. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Ay ! ay ! so he is every where, and so 
he deserves to be. Is your cofiee good ? sweeten to your 
taste, and don’t spare sugar, nor don’t spare any thing 
that this house affords ; for, to be sure, you deserve it 
all — nothing can be too good for him that saved my 
inaster’s life. So now that we are comfortable and quiet 
over our dish of coffee, pray be so very good as to tell 
me the whole story of my master’s escape, and of the/ 
horse being killed under him, and of your carrying him 
off on your shoulders ; for I’ve only heard it by bits and 
scraps, as one may say ; I’ve seen only the bill of fare, 
ha! ha! ha! — so now pray set out all the good things 
for me, in due order, garnished and all : and, before you 
begin, taste these cakes — they are my own making. 

Christiern. (aside). ’Tis the one-and-twentieth time 


• THE KNAPSACK. 


171 


I’ve told the story to-day ; but no matter. — (Aloud.) 
Why, then, madam, the long and the short of the story 
is — 

Mrs. Ulrica. O, pray, let it be the long, not the short 
of the story, if you please : a story can never be too 
long for my taste, when it concerns my master — ’tis, as 
one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer the finer, and 
the more I relish it — but 1 interrupt you, and you eat 
none of my cake — pray go on. — (A call behind the scenes 
of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!) — Coming! — coming! — 
patience. 

Christiem. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might 
be, here — just please to look; — I’ve drawn the field of 
battle for you here, with coifee, on the table — and you 
shall be the enemy ! 

Mrs. Ulrica. I ! — no ; I’ll not be the enemy — my mas- 
ter’s enemy ! 

Chi'isliern. Well, I’ll be'the enemy. 

Mrs. Ulrica. You ! — O no, you sha’n’t be the enemy. 

Christiem. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy. 

Mrs. Ulrica. The dake — ray cake ! — no, indeed. 

Christiem. Well, let the candle be the enemy. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Well, let the candle be the enemy ; and 
where was my master, and where are you — I don’t un- 
derstand — what is all this great slop? 

Christiem. W"hy, ma’am, the field of battle; and let 
the coffee-pot be my master : here comes the enemy — 

Enter Footman. 

Footman. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for 
the dancers above. 

Mrs. Ulrica. More refreshments! — more! — bless my 
heart, ’tis an wnpossibility they can have swallowed down 
all I laid out, notan hour ago, in the confectionary room, 
i Footman. Confectionary room! 0,1 never thought 
of looking there. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Look ye there now!— why, where did 
you think of looking, then ! — in the stable, or the cock- 
loft, hey \—[Exit Footman.]— Bnt I can’t scold on such 
a night as this ; their poor heads are all turned with joy ; 
and riiy own’s scarce in a more properer condition — 


172 


MORAL TALES. 


Well, I beg your pardon — pray go on — the coffee-pot is 
my master, and the candle’s the enemy. 

Christiern. So, ma’am, here comes the enemy, full 
drive, upon Count Helmaar. 

[A call without of Mrs. Ulrica ! Mrs. Ulrica ! 

Mrs. Ulrica! 

Mrs. Ulrica. Mrs. Ulrica ! Mrs. Ulrica! — can’t you 
do without Mrs. Ulrica one_ instant, but you must call, 
call — (J\Irs. Ulrica! Mrs.Ulrica!) — Mercy on us, what 
do you want ? I must go for one instant. , 

Christiern. And I must bid ye a good night. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Nay, nay, nay {eagerly') — you won’t go 
— I’ll be back. 

Enter Footman. 

Footman. Ma’am ! Mrs. Ulrica ! the key of the blue 
press. 

Mrs. Ulrica. The key of the blue press — I had it in 
my hand jus*t now — I gave it — I — {looks among a hunch 
of keys, and then all round the room) — I know nothing at 
all about it, I tell you — I must drink my tea, and I will 
— [Exit Footman']. ’Tis a sin to scold on such a night 
as this* if one could help it. — Well, Mr. Christiern so 
the coffee-pot’s my master. 

Christiern. And the sugar-basin — Why, here’s a key 
in the sugar-basin. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me! ’tis the very key, the 
key of the blue press — why dear me — {feels in her pocket) 
— and here are the sugar-tongs in my 'pocket, I protest 
— where was my poor head ? Here, Thomas ! Thomas! 
here’s the key ; take it, and don’t say a word for your 
life, if you. can help it : you need not come in, I say — 
{she holds the door — the footman pushes in). 

Footman. But, ma’am I have something particular to 
say. ' 

Mrs. Ulrica. Why, you’ve always something particu- 
lar to say— is it any thing about my master? 

Footman. No, but about your purse, ma’am. 

Mrs. Ulrica. What of my purse ? 

Footman. Here’s your little godson, ma’am, is here; 
who has found it. 


THE K.VAPSACK. 173 

Mrs. Ulrica, (aside). Hold your foolish tongue, can’t 
you? — don’t mention my little godson, for your life. 

[ The Utile Boy creeps in under the Footman^ s arm ; his 
sis..er Kate follows him. Mrs. Ulrica lifts up her hands 
and eyes with sis;ns of impatience. 

Mrs. Ulrica, (aside). Now I had settled in my head 
that their father should not see them tiH to-morrow 
morning. 

Little Girl. Who is that strange man ? 

Little Boy. He has made me forget all I had to say. 

Christiern (aside). What charming children ! 

Mrs. Ulrica (aside). He does not know them to be his 
— they don’t know him to be their father. — (^loud.) 
Well, children, what brings you here at this time of 
night? 

Little Boy. What I was going to say was — (the little 
Boy looks at the stranger hetxoeen every two or three words, 
and Chnstiern looks at him) — what I was going to say 
was — 

Little Girl. Ha! ha! ha! — he forgets that v/e found 
this purse in the forest as we were going home. 

Little Boy. And we thought that it might be yours. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Why should you think it was mine? 

Little Boy. Because nobody else could have so much 
money in one purse : so we brought it to you — here 
it is. 

Mrs. Ulrica. ’Tis none of my purse.-— (.dside.) Oh ! 
he’ll certainly find out that they are his children — (she 
stands between the children and Christiern). ’Tis none 
of my purse; but you are good, honest little dears, and 
I’ll be hanged if I won’t carry you both up to my mas- 
ter himself this very minute, and tell the story of your 
honesty before all the company. 

l^She pushes the children towards the door. Ulrica 
looks back. 

Little Boy. He has a soldier’s coat on — let me ask 
him if he is a soldier. 

Mrs.Ulrica. No — what’s that to you ? 

Little Girl. Let me ask him if he knows any thin^ 
about father. 

Mrs. Ulrica (puts her hand before the litHe GirVs mouth). 

p 2 


I 


174 


MORAL TALES. 


Hold your little foolish tongue, I say — Avhat’s that to 
you? - . ^ 

[^Exeunt, Mrs. Ulrica, pushing forward the children. 

Enter, at the opposite door, Thomas, the footman. 

Footman. Sir, would you please to come into our 
servants’ hall, only for one instant ; there’s one wants 
to speak a word to you. 

Christiem. Oh, I cannot stay another moment; I 
must go home : who is it? 

Footman. ’Tis a poor man who has brought in two 
carts full of my master’s baggage ; and my master begs 
you’ll be so very good as to see that the things are all 
right, as you know ’em, and no one else here does. 

Christiem (with impatience'). How provoking? — a 
full hour’s work ; — I sha’n’t get home this night, I see 
that — I wish the man and the baggage were in the Gulf 
of Finland. \^ExeunL 


SCENE — The apartment where the Count, Eleonora, 
Christina, ^-c. were dancing. 

Enter Mrs. Ulrica, leading the two children. 

Christina. Ha ! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson. 

Mrs. Ulrica. My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to 
interrupt; but T was so proud of my little godson and 
his sister, though not my goddaughter, that I couldn’t 
but bring them up, through the very midst of thb com- 
pany, to my master, to praise them according to their 
deserts ; for nobody can praise those that deserve it so 
well as rny master — to my fancy. 

Eleonora (aside). Nor to mine. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Here’s a purse, sir, which this little boy 
and girl of mine found in the woods as they were goin^ 
home; and, like honest children as they are, they came 
back with it directly to me, thinking that it was mine. 

Helmaar. Shake hands, my honest little fellow — this 
is just what I should have expected from a godson of 
Mrs. Ulrica, and a son of — 


THE KNAPSACK. 


175 


Mrs. Ulrica (aside to the Count). Oh Lord bless you, 
sir, don’t tell him. — My lady — (to Christina) — would 
you take the children out of hearing? 

Eleon. (to the children) Come with us, my dears ? 

l^Exeimt ladies and children. 

Mrs. 'Ulrica. Don’t sir, pray, tell the children any 
thing about their father : they don’t know that their 
father’s here, though they’ve just seen him j and I’ve 
been striving all I can to keep the secret, and to keep 
the father here all night, that I may have the pleasure 
of seeing the meeting of father and mother and children 
at their own cottage to-morrow, I would not miss the 
sight of their meeting for fifty pounds ; and yet I shall 
not see it after all — for Christiern will go, all I can 
say or do. Lord bless me ! I forgot to bolt him in when 
I came up with the children — the bird’s flown, for cer- 
tain — (going in a great hurry). 

Helmaar. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed ; 
your prisoner is very safe, I can assure you, though you 
forgot to bolt him in : I have given him an employment 
that will detain him a full hour, for I design to have the 
pleasure of restoring my deliverer myself to his family, 

Mrs. Ulrica. Oh! that will be delightful! — Then 
you’ll keep him here all night! — but that will vex him 
terribly, and of all the days and nights of the year, one 
wouldn’t have anybody vexed this day or /light, more 
especially the man who, as I may say, is the cause of 
all our illuminations, and rejoicings, and dancings — no, 
no, happen what will, we must not have him vexed. 

Helmaar. He shall not be vexed, I promise.you ; and, 
if it be necessary to keep your heart from breaking, my 
good Mrs. Ulrica, I’ll tell you a secret which I had in- 
tended, I own, to have kept from you one half-hour 
longer. 

Mrs. Ulrica. A secret! dear sir, half an hour’s a great 
while to keep a secret from one when it’s about one’s 
friends ; pray, if it be proper — but you are the best judge 
— I should be very glad to hear just a little hint of the 
matter, to prepare me. 

Helmaar. Then prepare in a few minutes to see the 
happy meeting between Christiern and his family j I 

43 # 


176 


MORAL TALES. 


have sent to his cottage for his wife, to desire that she 
would come hither immediately. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Oh! a thousand thanks to you, sir ; but 
Pm afraid the messenger will let the cat out of the bag. 

Helmaar. The man I have sent can keep a secret. — 
Which way did the Lady Eleonora go? Are those 
peasants in the hall? [Exit Count, 

Mrs. Ulrica (following). She went towards the west 
drawing-room, 1 think, sir. — Yes, sir, the peasants are 
at supper in the' hall. — (Aside.) Bless me! I wonder' 
what messenger he sent, for I don’t know many — men 
I mean — fit to be trusted with a secret. [Exit. 


SCENE — An apartment in Count Helmaar’s Castle . — 

Eleonora, Christina, — Little Kate and Ulric 

asleep on the floor. 

Eleon. Poor creatures ! they were quite tired by sitting 
up so late : is their mother come yet? 

Christina. Not, yet; but she will soon be here, for my 
brother told Aleftson to make all possible haste, — Do 
you know where my brother is ? — he is not among the 
dancers. I expected to have found him sighing at the 
Lady Eleonora’s feet. 

Eicon. He is much better employed than in sighing at 
anybody’s feet; he is gone down into the great hall, to 
see and reward some poor peasants who have brought 
home the knapsacks of those unfortunate soldiers who 
fell in the last battle ; your good Mrs. Ulrica found out 
that these peasants were in the village near us — she 
sent for them, got a plentiful supper ready, and the count 
is now speaking to them. 

Chiistina. And can you forgive my ungallant brother 
for thinking of vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent 
on nothing but your bright eyesl — then all I can say is, 
you are both of you just fit for one another; every fool, 
indeed, saw that long ago. 

[A cry behind the scenes of “ Long live Count Helmaar! 
long live the good count! long live tht poor marina 
friend!’’ 


THE KNAPSACK. 


177 


Christina (joins the cry'). Long live Count Helniaar ! 
— join me, Eleonora — long live the good count! long 
live the poor man’s friend I 

[T/ie little children waken, start up, and stretch 
themselves. 

Eleon. There, you have wakened these poor children. 

Ulric. What’s the matter? I dreamed father was 
shaking hands with me. v 

Enter Mrs. Ulrica. 

Little Kate. Mrs. Ulrica! where ami? I thought I 
was in my little bed at home — I was dreaming about a 
purse, I believe. 

Mrs. Ulrica. Was it about this purse you were dream- 
ing ? — (shows the purse which the children found in the 
wood.) — Come, take it into your little hands, and waken 
and rouse yourselves, for you must come and give this 
purse back to the rightful owner; I’ve found him out for 
you . — (Aside to Christina and Eleonora.) And now, 
ladies, if you please to go up into the gallery, you’ll see 
something worth looking at. [Exeunt. 


SCENE — A hall in Count Helmaar’s Cattle. — Peas- 
ants rising from supper in the back scene. 

Isf Peasant. Here’s a health to the poor man’s friend ; 
and may every poor man, every poor honest man — and 
there are none other in Sweden — find as good a friend 
as Count Helmaar. 

Enter Charles eagerly. 

Charles. Count Helmaar! is he here? 

Omnes. Heyday ! Charles, the sleeper, broad awake ! 
or is he walking in his sleep. 

Charles. Where’s Count Helmaar, I say ? — I’d walk 
in my sleep, or any way, to get a sight of him. 

\ si Peasant. Hush! stand back! — here’s some of the 
quality coming, who are not thinking of you. 


]78 


MORAL TALES. 


[TYie peasants all retire to the back scene. — Count Hel- 
MAAR, Christina, and Eleonora appear looking 
from a gallei'y. 

jEnier Aleftson and Catherine at one door, Mrs. Ul- 
rica at the opposite door, with Christiern, followed 

by the two children. 

Cath. (spiings forward). Christiern ! my husband ! 
alive ! — is it a dream? 

Christiern {embracing her). Your own Christiern, 
de.arest Catherine. 

\The children clap their hands and run to their father. 

Vine. Why, I thought he was my father, only he 
did not shake hands with me. 

Kate. And Mrs. Ulrica bade me hold my tongue. 

Christiern. My Ulric ! my little Kate ! 

Mrs. Ulrica. Ay, my little Kate, you may speak now 
as much as you will. — (Their father kisses them eagerly.) 
Ay, kiss them, kiss them ; they are as good children as 
ever were born — and as honest : Kate, show him the 
purse, and ask him if it be his. 

Kate. Is it yours, father? — (holds up the purse.) 

Christiern. , ’T'ls mine; ’twas in my knapsack; but 
how it came here heaven knows. 

Ulric. We found it in the wood, father, as we were 
going home, just at the foot of a tree. 

Charles (comes foi-ward). Why, mayhap, now I recol- 
lect, I might have dropped it there — more shame for me, 
or rather more shame for them — (looking back at his com- 
panions) — that were playing the fool with me, and tum- 
oled out all the things on the ground. — Master, I hope 
there’s no harm done: we poor peasant fellows have 
brought home all the other knapsacks safe and sound to 
the relations of them that died ; and yours came by mis- 
take, it seems. 

Christiern. It’s a very lucky mistake ; for I wouldn’t 
have lost a waistcoat which there is in that knapsack 
for all the waistcoats in Sweden. — My Catherine, ’twos 
that which you gave me the day before I went abroad — 
do you remember it? 


THE KXAPSACK. 


179 


Ctiarles. Ay, that she does ; it had like to have been 
the death of her — for -she thought you must be dead for 
certain, when she saw it brought home without you — 
but I knew he was not dead, mistress, — did not I tell 
you mistress, not to give way to sorrovv while there was 
hope left? 

Cath. Ojoy! joy! — too much joy! 

Meft. Now are you sorry you came with me when I 
bade you? — but Pm a fool! — Pm a fool! 

Ulric. But where’s the cap and coat you, used to 
wear? 

Kate. You are quite another man, uncle. 

Meft. The same man, niece, only in another coat. 

Mrs. Ulrica (laughing). How they stare! — Well, 
Christiern, you are not angry with my master and me 
for keeping you now? — but angry or not, I don’t care, 
for I wouldn’t have missed seeing this meeting for anj 
thing in the whole world. 

Enter Count Helmaar, Eleonora, and Christina. 

Christina. Nor I. 

Eicon. Nor I. 

Helmaar. Nor I. 

TJ}e Peasants. Nor any of us. 

Helmaar (to little Ulric.). My honest little boy, is that 
the purse which you found in the wood? 

Ulric. Yes, and it’s my own father’s. 

Helmaar. And how much money is there in it? 

[ The child opens the nurse, and spreads the money on 
the floor. 

Ulric. (to Mrs. Ulrica). Count you, for I can’t count 
so much. 

Mrs Ulrica (counts). Eight ducats, five rix dollars,^ 
and let me see how many — sixteen Carolines :* — ’twould 
have been pity, Catherine, to have lost all this treasure, 
which Christiern has saved for you. 

Helmaar. Catherine, I beg that all the money in this 
purse may be given to these honest peasants. — (7’o- 


♦ A rix dollar is 4s., CJ. sterling; two rix dollars are equal in value 
to a ducat ; a Caroline is Is. (xl. 


180 


MORAL TALES. 


Kale.) Here take it to them, my little modest girl.* — As 
tor you and your children, Catherine, you may depend 
upon it that 1 will not neglect to make you easy in the 
world : your own good conduct, and the excellent man- 
ner in which you have brought up these children, would" 
incline 'me to serve you, even if your husband had not 
saved my life. 

Cath. Christiern, my dear husband, and did you save 
Count Helmaar’s life? 

Mrs Ulrica. Ay, that he did, 

Cath. (^embracing him). I am the happiest wife, and 
— {turning to kiss her children) — the happiest mother 
upon earth. 

Charles {staring up in Count Helmaar^s face). God 
bless him ! I’ve setn him face to face at last ; and now 
1 wish in my heart I could see his wife. 

Christina. And so do I most sincerely ; my dear bro- 
ther, who has been all his life labouring for the happi- 
ness of others, should now surely think of making him- 
self happy. 

Eleonora (giving her hand to Helmaar), No, leave that 
to me, for I shall think of nothing else all mv life. 


THE END. 


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